‘I need a phone so I can call work. I usually check in with my boss and my team when I’m not there. I confirm appointments and discuss cases. It already looks strange that I’ve not called for so long.’
He gives it some thought. ‘It makes sense. Wait and I will come back to you.’
Louisa watches him turn and walk away. She can’t believe he just told her to wait. Like she has a choice. Wait is not a word she’s ever liked, but in her current circumstance it’s been elevated to the top of the things she most hates and fears.
But wait she does.
Half an hour later, he reappears. With him are two more men, but their cloaks are scarlet.
Louisa steps away from the bars as Purple Cloak unlocks them. The others enter and Louisa has to do a double-take. Their faces are startlingly feminine, but their hands and feet are distinctly man-sized. Without talking, they grab her wrists and click on a pair of steel handcuffs.
‘Ow!’ Louisa looks down at the metal gnawing her wrist bones. ‘They’re hurting.’
‘You’ll get used to it,’ says Purple Cloak.
One of his henchmen — or henchwomen; Louisa’s now not sure — disappears behind her. She’s about to turn around when the other one jerks her by the wrists.
The stab of pain distracts her.
A black hood is pulled over her head.
A stretch of thin rope is looped around her neck and pulled tight.
Purple Cloak speaks. ‘Don’t scream. Don’t panic. You’ll only make things worse for yourself.’
Louisa struggles.
He holds her shoulders. ‘Listen! Nothing bad is going to happen. We can’t get any reception down here, so we’re taking you to a place where you can make your call.’
The reassurance doesn’t work.
Louisa is panicking. Panicking like she’s never panicked before.
The shock of the hood has triggered her claustrophobia.
She feels like giant balls of cotton wool are being stuffed down her throat.
She tells herself to stay calm, breathe through her nose.
Her chest aches.
Her heart is racing.
Thin streams of air trickle into her heaving lungs.
Her shoulder bumps against something.
They’re moving her.
‘Come on,’ says someone. ‘Let’s get her out of the womb.’
Womb?
She must have misheard. They must have said room.
Hands grip her elbows and tow her along.
She feels sick and dizzy.
There are other voices now. Women shouting to her, or maybe it’s children.
Louisa starts to hyperventilate. She needs to stop. Stand still. See light and space. Calm down.
But they won’t let her.
Her knees buckle.
She gasps for air.
Blackness is just a breath away.
89
Tom and Valentina eat at their hotel.
Federico stays with them for a glass of wine, but gets a call from his wife and says he has to leave.
Left alone, they leisurely pick their way through a platter of Tuscan prosciutto, before seeing off two small but delicious plates of mushroom risotto. A particularly fine and fragrant bottle of Vermentino di Gallura runs out during their main course of fresh lobster, pasta and salad.
‘More?’ asks Tom, holding the bottle aloft.
She pulls a face. ‘Would you hate it if we didn’t?’
‘Of course not.’
They both know what it means. The meal is heading to a close. Work is rearing its ugly head.
Tom mops a little of the lobster sauce with a piece of torn bread. ‘Are you starting to think about Anna?’
‘A little.’ She pins some pasta down and starts to twirl it on her fork. ‘Though I’m trying not to.’
‘And Louisa?’
‘Also.’ Her appetite’s gone now. Killed by hearing the names Anna and Louisa. ‘When I try to make sense of everything that’s happened — the murder, or murders, Anna’s death, and this latest development with Louisa — my head feels like it’s exploding.’
Tom understands. ‘I don’t know how you cope with such horrors as part of a daily job. I came upon death quite a lot as a priest, but nowhere near on the scale that you do, and there was seldom the same amount of violence involved.’
She untwists the speared pasta and uses her knife to scrape her fork clean. ‘You know, murder is usually straightforward. Wife kills cheating husband. Cheated-on husband kills cheating wife. Jealous jilted lover kills reunited husband and wife, that sort of thing.’
‘Plus the drug killings.’
‘Plus the drug killings. Then there’s not much more on the spectrum until you reach serial killers.’ She pushes her plate away from her. ‘Where do you think sociopathic cults or paedophile gangs fit in?’
‘Somewhere between the mentally ill and the spree killers? You want coffee or anything?’
‘Non, grazie.’ She picks up her glass and swirls the last of her wine.
Tom tries to beckon a waiter to pay the bill, but has no luck. ‘You remember the number ten came up when we first talked about Cybele and the cults and the myths of the other sibyls, the prophetesses?’
Valentina has to force herself to remember. ‘Something to do with the number on the shelf at the depository where the poor left their cremated loved ones.’
‘The Columbarium, that’s right. Well, it’s been driving me crazy. I realised afterwards that while ten doesn’t mean anything to me, nine does.’
Valentina sits back. She fears a long and difficult story is about to keep her from the soft comforts of her bed. ‘Treat my brain gently. I’ve had a few glasses of wine, I’m stressed to the limit. And I’m getting very tired.’
‘Okay, I’ll make it simple.’ Tom blots his mouth with a white napkin before he begins. ‘According to Roman mythology, a sibyl offered nine books of prophecies and wisdom to Tarquinius Superbus, the last king of Rome, in return for a vast fortune.’
She grimaces. History — Roman or otherwise — was never her strong subject. ‘For how much?’
‘No idea. I don’t think anyone ever knew. Legend just says it was a fortune. Anyway, Tarquinius says no deal, and so the sibyl burns three of the books and then says she wants the same amount of money for the remaining six. Tarquinius still says no deal, so she torches another three.’
‘Plucky girl.’ Valentina drains the dregs of her glass in appreciation. ‘She’d be my choice to beat the Deal or No Deal banker every time.’
‘So, we’re down to three books, for which the sibyl demands exactly the same amount of money she did for the original nine. This time Tarquinius cracks and hands over the cash.’
‘Why? What made these books so valuable?’
‘Good questions. Sibyls were prophetesses. As well as foresight, apparently these texts gave great advice on what to do as and when disasters fell upon the empire.’
‘A sort of Dummy’s Guide to Pestilence and Plague?’
Tom can’t help but laugh. ‘Yes, if you like. Joking aside, the three sibylline books that remained were so treasured that they were kept in a guarded vault in the Temple of Jupiter on the Capitoline Hill. They were only brought out and consulted during times of crisis.’
‘Such as?’
‘Pretty much what you said: famine, pestilence in the agricultural areas, meteor showers, slave rebellions, invading armies, those kinds of things.’
‘I’ve never heard of these books. Are you thinking that they somehow have a connection with Anna and all her alters?’
‘We know there’s a connection to Cybele; it’s pretty likely that that extends to associated cults and the sibylline books or teachings.’