I took the job.
She did not berate me for it, or very rarely, though Albie certainly would in years to come. But neither was she sympathetic if I struggled in at eight or nine or ten at night, and there was no doubt in my mind that I had slipped somewhat in her estimation. An awful feeling, that; sliding down the scree, scrabbling at the dust but unable to get a grip. That shine, the idealism I suppose, that had caught Connie’s attention on the night we met, had faded. It couldn’t last but still, I regretted its passing. Connie had always said I was at my most attractive when I talked about my work. ‘The lights come on,’ she had said. Now I’d have to find another way to make that happen.
A little before seven a.m. I was woken by a warder bearing an excellent cup of coffee. I had eaten nothing since the jelly sweet that I’d taken from the boy on the Siena train, and though the thick black liquid burned my mouth and made my stomach spasm, it was delicious. I sat on the edge of the cell bench, sipped from the plastic cup, rubbed my eyes and forced myself to acknowledge the full, all-encompassing hopelessness of my situation.
Grimly, I sketched out my retreat to London. I would walk down the hill to Siena station, find out the cost of a single ticket to Florence, and plead with the clerk — in English? — to take my wristwatch and phone as security for the train ticket. That accomplished, I’d retrieve my property in Florence, withdraw cash, return to Siena to buy back my watch and phone, then try and catch the next plane to London from Pisa. It was a dull and dispiriting plan, requiring some leniency on the part of the Italian Rail Service, but the alternative — phoning Connie and asking her to wire some money — was unacceptable. What did that mean, anyway, ‘wiring money’? It was one of those things that people only did in films.
I switched on my telephone. Battery power stood at 2 per cent. Without considering what I would say, I decided to call home. I pictured Connie’s phone on top of her pile of books, her sleeping figure, recalled the comforting scent of the sheets, and I imagined how things might have been had all gone to plan. Imagined the sound of a car on the driveway, Connie going to the window, seeing Albie and me stepping out of the taxi, Albie smiling a little shame-facedly, raising his hand to the bedroom window, me joining him, my arm around his shoulder. I imagined the tears of gratitude in Connie’s eyes as she ran for the door. I had returned him safe and sound as I had promised. ‘You found him! In all of Europe! Douglas, how did you do it? You clever, brilliant man—’
Back in the real world, Connie picked up. ‘Hello?’
‘Darling, it’s me—’
‘It’s six in the morning, Douglas!’
‘I know, I’m sorry, but the phone’s about to die, and I wanted to tell you—’
I heard the rustle of sheets as she sat up in bed. ‘Douglas, have you found him? Is he safe?’
‘I lost him. I almost had him, almost, almost, but I lost him.’
A sigh. ‘Oh, Douglas.’
‘You mustn’t worry, he’s perfectly safe and well, I know that—’
‘How can you know that?’
‘I found Kat.’
‘How on earth did you—?’
‘It’s a long story. My phone’s about to run out. Anyway, I’m sorry, I failed.’
‘Douglas, you didn’t “fail”.’
‘Well, I didn’t achieve my result, so yes, I did fail.’
‘But at least we know he’s safe. Where are you now? Are there people with you? Are you safe, are you well?’
‘I’m in a hotel, in Siena.’ I tapped the stainless-steel toilet with my toe. ‘It’s very nice.’
‘Do you want me to come out?’
‘No, no, I want to come home.’
‘Good idea. Come home, Douglas. We’ll wait for him together here.’
‘I’ll be back tonight, tomorrow at the latest.’
‘I’ll be waiting. And Douglas? At least you tried. I’m grateful—’
‘Go back to sleep.’
‘And when you come home—’
A bleep, and the phone died. I fastened my watch, placed the phone in my pocket, folded my blanket neatly on the bench and left my cell, closing the door behind me.
It was a bright, cool summer morning, fresh and clean. The police station lay in the modern outskirts of the town, beneath the city walls. I was about to walk down the hill towards the station when I heard music, the theme from The Godfather, played on the accordion.
Perched impertinently on the bonnet of a police car was Kat.
‘Hey,’ she said, offering her fist to bump. I obliged.
‘Hello, Kat. What are you doing here?’
‘Waiting for you. How was your first night behind bars?’
‘Better than some hotels I’ve stayed in. I regret the tattoo, though.’
‘What tattoo did you get, Mr P.?’
‘Just gang-related stuff. Big dragon.’
‘Your tan’s evened out. On your face. You look less like a road sign.’
‘Well, that’s something, I suppose.’ She smiled and time passed. ‘Well, Kat, I should get going. Nice to meet—’
‘Have you tried texting him, Mr P.?’
‘Of course, and calling too. He said he’d ignore them all and he has.’
‘Then send him one he can’t ignore. Here, hold Steve.’ Kat slid off the bonnet, handed me accordion-Steve then reached into her pocket and produced her mobile phone, tapping on it with her head down. ‘I shouldn’t do this. It’s a betrayal of trust, Mr P., and I feel bad. Plus there’s the cost to my personal dignity and integrity. But given that you’ve come this far …’
‘What are you writing, Kat?’
‘… and “send”! There. All done. Take a look.’
She held her phone out to me, and I read:
Albie I need to talk to you about something. Urgent. Has to be in person so don’t call me! Just meet me tomorrow eleven am on the steps of the prado, do not be late!!!! Love you still kat
‘There you go,’ said Kat. ‘I’m delivering him to you.’
‘Good God,’ I exclaimed. ‘I don’t know what to say.’
‘No thanks required.’
‘But … but doesn’t the message sort of imply …?’
‘… that he’s knocked me up? You do want him to be there, don’t you?’
‘Well, yes, but—’
She took the phone from my hands. ‘I can always tell him I was kidding …’
‘No, no, no, I think … let it be. But tomorrow morning? Can I get to Madrid for tomorrow?’
‘You can if you run.’
I laughed, bundled the wheezing accordion back into her arms and with a certain wariness — we were neither of us daisy-fresh — embraced Kat, and began to trot across the car park before halting and turning back.
‘Kat, I realise I’m pushing my luck, but the money I gave you yesterday — could I get it back? My wallet is in Florence, you see …’
She shook her head slowly and sighed, crouched and reached into her backpack.
‘And maybe if I could borrow twenty, maybe thirty euros more? And your bank details, so I can return the money …’
I confess I made this offer in the expectation of her declining, but she took some time to write out her account numbers, including IBAN and SWIFT codes. I promised to make good my debts as soon as I returned, and then I was off, running down the hill, running, running, running towards Spain.
part seven