Treasured Dreams (18 page)

When Nox turned and ran she knew he was coming down, or worse—getting his gun. ‘Push!' She grabbed the bars and pushed with all the strength she had. But it was too late; the gap wasn't big enough for her brother. She turned to him and by the look in his eyes, they both came to the realisation at the exact same second.

‘Quick, you have to go.' Filippo grabbed her shoulders and twisted her towards the window.

‘I'm not leaving without you.'

‘Yes, you are. Find Archer and come back for me.' He grabbed her cheeks and kissed her forehead. ‘Go.'

She launched her good leg over the windowsill. Halfway across, she stopped. ‘Grab our knives.' He raced to their beds and ran back with a knife in each hand. She reached for her weapon. ‘If you get a chance, kill him. Understand?'

He nodded, but by the look of fear contorting his face, she wasn't sure he could do it. She hoped for his sake she misread him.

She shoved her knife down her dress, securing it just above the elastic waistband, then swung her broken leg over the windowsill. With a grip on the bars she stretched out, hoping for footing, but there was nothing. She dangled there for what seemed like minutes, stretching out as much as she could, but when Nox's voice boomed loud and clear, she had no choice. In a snap decision, she clutched the billowing sheet tied to the window bars and let go.

The cotton whipped through her fingers. She had no time to think. Jagged rocks sliced her cheek. Her feet hit and pain shot up her legs. A desperate shriek burned her throat as she clutched at the sheet to stop from falling backwards.

Above her, rising straight up from the cliff was the solid block wall of the building. She tried to ignore the yelling from the window as she searched with her feet along the very narrow ledge she'd fallen onto. Below her was nothing but steep cliff face that met with the churning ocean. The ledge was barely a foot wide; she was lucky to be alive.

The realisation was a punch to her stomach.

Night was encroaching. Fast. And she needed to get off this precipice while she could still see. Pulling herself back up the cliff was not an option; her upper body strength had never been great. She glanced left and then right, trying to establish the best way. Neither looked better than the other. In the end, it was her broken leg that dictated her decision. She needed her good leg to take her weight before she could find a spot for her cast.

‘Go Rosalina, run.' Filippo's shrill voice pushed her to action. With her breath trapped in her throat and her heart pounding in her ears she let go of the sheet, and searching for rocks to grip onto, she took a hesitant step. The measured precision made her progress painfully slow and with horror she noticed she wasn't going up at all. Nor was she going down. She was traversing along the cliff face parallel, and about two metres below where she wanted to be.

Her foot kicked at something. Thinking it was a rock, she looked down and saw a statue of Jesus. She blinked, certain her mind and the fading light were playing tricks on her. Jesus held his arms out to her, like he was willing her to embrace him. Not believing her eyes, she tapped it with her foot, and the statue didn't move. The irony wasn't lost on her. Somewhere above her was an evil priest who wouldn't hesitate to kill her. This statue was telling her to have faith. She'd always been a believer in fate—landing on this ledge was a sign of that. Assuming the statue was offering something in the grand plan, she eased down and picked it up.

It was heavy and awkward, but upon slotting it down her top so it nestled above the waistband of her dress with the glass knife, she was heartened by the curious find.

Darkness came swiftly, and soon she was operating in a complete blackout. Her fingers and arms ached, as did her good leg. Her cast was a dead weight that grew heavier with each step. She knew she couldn't go much farther, yet she had to.

Despair gripped her, and tears tumbled down her cheeks. Unable to wipe them away, she let them fall onto her chest.

Salty air and dirt lined her tongue. She swallowed back the dryness and reached for her next foothold. A faint voice in the distance carried to her and she paused to listen. Her heart was in her throat as she begged for it to be Filippo; she grew frantic with the knowledge that it was Nox yelling somewhere above her, not her brother.

Her chest squeezed as she thought of Filippo still trapped with Nox. She felt no elation or satisfaction over her escape; her thoughts were shackled by what Nox was capable of. Squeezing her eyes shut, she prayed for her brother, something she hadn't done in a very long time. But then she realised that Nox needed Filippo now. Her brother was Nox's only leverage against the treasure. She forced herself to believe this concept would keep her brother alive.

She reached out with her hand for the next rock to grip onto, but there was nothing. Her finger grasped at the void. Her knees wobbled as she stretched farther, hoping to reach something. Still, there was nothing. She snapped back, and her arm slapped on the rock at a ninety-degree angle. It was with relief that she realised she had come to a corner of sorts. Putting all her weight on her broken leg, she reached out with her good leg and her toes found flat ground.

It was an excruciating amount of time before she crawled onto the relatively flat surface. In the pitch black, she felt out the space. She'd found a small cave, about the size of an arm chair, large enough for her to sit cross-legged, but not big enough for her to lie down and stretch out her aching back muscles.

She removed the knife and the statue from down her dress and stood the figurine at the edge of her cave, watching out for her. Cuts on her cheek and hands stung, and her fingers almost screamed with a crippling ache. She massaged her toes and calf muscle until some feeling returned.

Rosalina closed her eyes and the sound of the crashing waves helped steady her erratic breathing. When she eventually looked out over the ocean, a sliver of moon hung high over the ocean. As it gradually lowered into the horizon, gracefully concealing its thin curve, she made the decision that this little cave would be her bedroom until sunrise.

With that choice made, she explored the cave for ways to make it warm and comfortable. Scraggy weeds popped out of many crevices and she tugged as many of them as she could free from the rocks and shoved them down her dress. It wouldn't be enough insulation, but it was all she had. A couple of the weeds wouldn't budge, and she reached for the cloth-wrapped shard. The light of the moon caught in the edge of the glass, casting a rainbow pattern on the cave wall. Her Nonna came to mind, as did one of her grandmother's favourite sayings. ‘To get a rainbow, you must have a little storm.'

‘That's what my Nonna's fond of telling me,' she told the statue. ‘I think I've had enough storms now.'

Rosalina twisted the glass side to side a couple of times, admiring the colourful spectacle. She hacked off the last of the branches, cut them into smaller pieces and shoved them down her dress too. The branches were prickly and uncomfortable, but with the dropping temperature they were necessary.

The moon was nearly gone now and the breeze had picked up, blowing cool air into the cave. Dirt swirled up into her face and she closed her eyes as she shivered. She curled into a ball, tucked her leg and plaster cast up under her dress, and hooked the thin fabric over the top. When her teeth began to chatter and her back ached with the cold, she made a drastic decision.

With only a moment's hesitation, she dragged her plastered leg out from beneath her dress, and with the knife, began to cut the cast off. The cotton wool inside the cast may be enough insulation to help her get through the cold night. She started at the top, near her knee, and sawed back and forth, applying as much pressure as she could with her fingers. Pausing constantly to gauge her progress, she felt the split deepening. Concerned that she'd cut herself, she alternated between sawing back and forth and prising the cast apart with her fingers.

Finally, she had a breakthrough and peeled the plaster off and placed the shell to the side. She rolled her ankle around and breathed a sigh of relief at the minimal pain. She flexed her foot back and forward. Again, not much pain. She put the knife aside, and using her fingers, tugged the layers of cotton wool from her leg. Cool breeze licked skin that hadn't felt fresh air for seven weeks.

The sense of freedom was fantastic. When all the wool was removed she rubbed her leg with a bunch of it, scratching at her scaly skin. After separating the condensed cotton wool and fluffing it up as much as possible, she lay on her side, curled her legs and packed the wool around them. Then she draped her skirt over her legs and tucked the fabric around her feet.

She felt for the knife and placed it within easy reach, then she grabbed the plaster cast and nestled it into the crook of her neck as a pillow. It was hard and uncomfortable, but at least her head wasn't on the rough ground. Her arms were freezing now, and when she ran out of energy to rub warmth into them, she tucked her arms inside her dress and hugged herself.

There was nothing left to do now but wait until sunrise. She closed her eyes, imagined Archer's arms wrapped around her, and told herself to go to sleep.

Chapter Twenty-One

Nox wiped the dried blood off his arms with a T-shirt he'd grabbed from the upstairs cupboard. The jagged cuts from Filippo's knife attack may have been shallow, but they still stung. Five in total, ranging from a small nick on his cheek to the ten centimetre one on his forearm. He couldn't believe he had yet more wounds to tend to. Fortunately, these were nothing compared to the injuries he'd suffered lately.

He tossed the bloody T-shirt into the fire and watched as it became an explosion of flames and black smoke. Soon, all evidence of the fight would be gone. Just like Rosalina. Stupid woman had fallen to her death. He had no doubt about that. Nox knew what was outside the dormitory windows; he'd tossed many things out there as a child. None of them ever turned up again.

With luck, Rosalina's battered body would be dragged out to sea, never to be seen again. It was fortunate he'd caught them in the middle of escaping or else both of them would have plunged to their deaths, ruining his entire plans.

Filippo was unconscious when Nox had tied him to one of the beds. By the time Nox had run upstairs to unhook the rope from the balustrade and returned to the dormitory, the lump on Filippo's head had grown to the size of a walnut. Nox had checked the man's bullet wound while Filippo laid passed out. It was just a graze, barely skimming his bicep. He was lucky Nox hadn't killed him. As was Nox. He needed the stupid shit.

Shooting him had given him the edge, though. Until then, Rosalina's crazy brother had slashed wildly with a piece of glass. He'd fired the gun as a warning and when Filippo screamed and gasped at his bullet wound, Nox had smashed the gun across his temple. Filippo had hit the floor like a dead man.

Once Rosalina's brother was tied up, Nox had gone outside to find her. He'd called out a few times and looked over the edge. But without a torch it was pointless and dangerous; he was just as likely to tumble over the cliff himself.

He'd seen a boy do that once. Santo was his name. There was some debate at the time over whether or not he'd jumped, fallen or been pushed. Nox had been only metres from him when he'd plunged, but he'd seen the look in Santo's eyes. Sadness had emanated from his tiny body, from his vacant eyes, his sagging shoulders to his wobbling knees. The boy had definitely jumped. It was many years before Nox knew why.

Santo had been chosen by Zanobi the night before, and Nox could remember thinking how lucky Santo was. To be chosen by Zanobi meant you were given special treats like ice cream and lollies, new clothes and new shoes. Those chosen by Zanobi were also saved from the chores. Not Nox, though; he'd cleaned the toilets hundreds of times. The stench of it was still right there in his nostrils. Not once did he see any of Zanobi's boys clean the toilets.

If he could've begged Zanobi to choose him, he would have. Other than Sunday dinner, the only time Zanobi showed his face was above the beds at night. He'd hover over them in that balcony like God. Nox had stared into his dark eyes, willing the man to look at him, to point his bony finger at him, and say ‘you. I pick you.' But Zanobi would always glance right over bed number sixteen as if there wasn't a soul in it.

Maybe Nox had already lost his soul by then.

Santo was the first person Nox saw commit suicide. Three more boys jumped off that cliff before the facility was shut down. The authorities were told it was too dangerous. That was what they told the concerned public, too. It was many years before the real truth came out. By then, though, Zanobi was a long way up the food chain.

Santo's body was the only one they'd ever recovered; he'd hit the rocks so hard he wasn't going anywhere. The other three boys vanished. Each of them were washed out to sea and never seen again. And now Rosalina had suffered the same fate.

It suddenly occurred to him that Archer didn't need to know what had happened. If good fortune was on his side, Rosalina would never be seen again, and that suited him just fine.

When the pot of water in the fireplace began to boil, Nox tossed in the pasta. His hunger pains were back. It was a familiar sensation, but he was sick of it. He missed Ophelia's incredible cooking. He came to her as a battered, starving man. When he'd scrambled away, he was strong, healed and cured. For the first time in his life, Nox knew what it meant to love someone. What he did to her crushed him. She didn't deserve to have his fingers wrapped around her throat.

Nox sucked in a deep breath, closed his eyes, and Ophelia filled his vision. Her arms were wrapped around her two sons, and she smothered them with kisses. Nox wanted that. He wanted Ophelia.

He snapped his eyes open, furious that he'd gone back there. It could never be. He could still picture his hands around her neck, her bulging blood-shot eyes, her swollen tongue. It was a miracle that he'd stopped squeezing when he did. She would never forgive him after that, and he didn't blame her.