inserts her memory stick, saves, closes down and retires, but she hears a bang from the bedroom and she hears Shawne cursing. Her heart misses one and she makes for the door, but as she opens it, a familiar young man looks Josie in the eye.
It’s obvious that Louis Consadine doesn’t want to be there, but he has three mates with him. One of them has his hand down his trousers. Josie thinks he’s probably holding his heat and she says to Louis, ‘I know you. Remember? I know your name, so don’t do anything stupid.’ Her heart beats double-time and she looks at the youth with the hand down his trousers. He’s barely fifteen. ‘Louis, don’t do anything stupid.’
Louis forces a broad smile but his eyes seem dead. ‘Suck me,’ he says.
‘Suck him,’ says the one with the heat.
‘Grow up,’ says Josie, pushing past them, walking as slowly as she dare, back to the stairwell. She won’t chance the lift, and as soon as she is round the corner she bolts down the stairs, two at a time – chased by her own echo.
*
Maurice swelters in his coat. Its tweed collar snags the hairs on the nape of his neck and the band on the inside of his hat tacks to his forehead with sweat. The rain has gone but the evening air is still muggy.
He puts his hands on the iron bars of the gate to Palazzo Adriano – this wonderful mix of English and Dutch with its curved gables and stained glass. But something is definitely in the rarefied air. Perhaps he was naïve to have come. Tatiana often says he is naïve.
A car drives by and Maurice can tell from the sound of the engine that it is slowing, so he pulls down his hat, waits for it to pass, but the engine peters quickly to nothing. He wants to look over his shoulder but resists. The handbrake clicks and Maurice plunges his hands deep into his pockets, still damp from the rainstorm earlier. The car door opens and slams shut; then another. He holds his breath.
Footsteps get close and Maurice knows he shouldn’t have come – not so soon. He wishes everything could be the way it used to be. He prays for Carmelo’s soul.
‘Excuse me, sir.’
Without looking, Maurice knows the voice is police. He wants to be home, with his books and the Olivetti Lettera 35 that his father, Claudio, gave him. It was supposedly an heirloom, but he later discovered his father had won it in a game of cards.
‘Sir? Turn round please, sir.’
Maurice looks at the house, thinks what truths might lie within.
‘Sir!’ It is a different voice.
Maurice turns round.
Each of the policemen seems shocked to see how young he is. Maurice resents his youth. It bows his shoulders. It shortens his stride but it is the one thing he knows can mend itself. He will be old – soon, he hopes. And Tatiana says she will still love him. He wishes her young, for ever.
‘Why are you here?’
Maurice intuits that the least harm will ensue from his being totally co-operative‚ and by staying as close to the truth as he dares.
*
They pull into Leadengate and Maurice recalls that this is where they investigated Calvi. He wasn’t even born then, but Maurice is well schooled in all aspects of his rich heritage. It would be fair to say it is something of an obsession with him and has been ever since his father first balanced him on his knee, telling him tales.
Now, he feels momentarily afraid as he is checked in by a kindly immigrant called Jombaugh, who regards him as if he can’t possibly have done something terrible. Then a weary inspector with hair an inch too long and clothes a cut too casual takes him into a room. Maurice tells Inspector Wagstaffe where he lives and that he will talk through his lawyer and only his lawyer. His lawyer, a gentleman by the name of Goldman.
The unkempt inspector is given an envelope, says, ‘There’s no need to keep you here, Mister Greene. We can get our answers at your place.’
‘Isn’t that irregular?’
The inspector wafts the paper he has removed from the envelope.
It’s obvious that Louis Consadine doesn’t want to be there, but he has three mates with him. One of them has his hand down his trousers. Josie thinks he’s probably holding his heat and she says to Louis, ‘I know you. Remember? I know your name, so don’t do anything stupid.’ Her heart beats double-time and she looks at the youth with the hand down his trousers. He’s barely fifteen. ‘Louis, don’t do anything stupid.’
Louis forces a broad smile but his eyes seem dead. ‘Suck me,’ he says.
‘Suck him,’ says the one with the heat.
‘Grow up,’ says Josie, pushing past them, walking as slowly as she dare, back to the stairwell. She won’t chance the lift, and as soon as she is round the corner she bolts down the stairs, two at a time – chased by her own echo.
*
Maurice swelters in his coat. Its tweed collar snags the hairs on the nape of his neck and the band on the inside of his hat tacks to his forehead with sweat. The rain has gone but the evening air is still muggy.
He puts his hands on the iron bars of the gate to Palazzo Adriano – this wonderful mix of English and Dutch with its curved gables and stained glass. But something is definitely in the rarefied air. Perhaps he was naïve to have come. Tatiana often says he is naïve.
A car drives by and Maurice can tell from the sound of the engine that it is slowing, so he pulls down his hat, waits for it to pass, but the engine peters quickly to nothing. He wants to look over his shoulder but resists. The handbrake clicks and Maurice plunges his hands deep into his pockets, still damp from the rainstorm earlier. The car door opens and slams shut; then another. He holds his breath.
Footsteps get close and Maurice knows he shouldn’t have come – not so soon. He wishes everything could be the way it used to be. He prays for Carmelo’s soul.
‘Excuse me, sir.’
Without looking, Maurice knows the voice is police. He wants to be home, with his books and the Olivetti Lettera 35 that his father, Claudio, gave him. It was supposedly an heirloom, but he later discovered his father had won it in a game of cards.
‘Sir? Turn round please, sir.’
Maurice looks at the house, thinks what truths might lie within.
‘Sir!’ It is a different voice.
Maurice turns round.
Each of the policemen seems shocked to see how young he is. Maurice resents his youth. It bows his shoulders. It shortens his stride but it is the one thing he knows can mend itself. He will be old – soon, he hopes. And Tatiana says she will still love him. He wishes her young, for ever.
‘Why are you here?’
Maurice intuits that the least harm will ensue from his being totally co-operative‚ and by staying as close to the truth as he dares.
*
They pull into Leadengate and Maurice recalls that this is where they investigated Calvi. He wasn’t even born then, but Maurice is well schooled in all aspects of his rich heritage. It would be fair to say it is something of an obsession with him and has been ever since his father first balanced him on his knee, telling him tales.
Now, he feels momentarily afraid as he is checked in by a kindly immigrant called Jombaugh, who regards him as if he can’t possibly have done something terrible. Then a weary inspector with hair an inch too long and clothes a cut too casual takes him into a room. Maurice tells Inspector Wagstaffe where he lives and that he will talk through his lawyer and only his lawyer. His lawyer, a gentleman by the name of Goldman.
The unkempt inspector is given an envelope, says, ‘There’s no need to keep you here, Mister Greene. We can get our answers at your place.’
‘Isn’t that irregular?’
The inspector wafts the paper he has removed from the envelope.
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