And then, just as Howie thought she was about to punch in 911 – she fainted.
31
Campeggio Castellani, Pompeii Rosa Novello.
Franco had seen her full name written down in his grandfather's Visitors Book. He kept suggesting they get a computer but he was told they were too expensive. A computer would be a relief for Franco. He'd had a stolen laptop for a while, bought it cheap from a Romanian gypsy staying on the camp. It had an aircard and pre-paid Internet access. But the real owner had cancelled the subscription after a few days and Franco had thrown it away in case the police traced it and caught him. For the brief time he'd used it, it had been a window on to the wider world. He'd looked in detail at his own disease, without the staring faces and probing lights of doctors around him. And he'd also tentatively explored the cyber underbelly of sex sites and chat rooms.
Rosa emerged from her caravan carrying a black sack of garbage. It was full and sharp corners of hidden trash were stretching it to bursting point. He wanted to go over and offer to carry it for her. That's what would happen in the films. That's how the hero would break the ice and get to know the girl of his dreams. Only real life wasn't like that. In real life she'd look at him and be scared. The shock would show in her eyes and she might even drop the whole sack. That's what others had done.
Rosa wore blue jeans and a red jumper. They didn't meet in the middle and her tummy showed. It stuck out like the top of a muffin, peeping above the rim of its greaseproof paper. He longed to touch her. Press his cheek against her muffin top. Smell it. Lick it.
The garbage bin was full so she dropped the sack alongside it and sashayed away. Her tight jeans showed her firm legs and what looked like the top of some tattoo on her back. Franco wondered what it was. Whether it stretched down into the crack of her bottom. What it would be like to run a finger over.
He was still thinking about the tattoo as he picked up her sack of trash and took it away. Precious treasure. He couldn't wait to be alone with it. To be able to secretly touch parts of Rosa's life.
32
Ristorante di Rossopomodoro, Napoli Lunch was a first for the three eleven-year-old street kids. Before today, none of the boy soldiers had ever eaten in a restaurant.
The three friends forked pasta and meatballs into their mouths, barely pausing to gasp for air. They looked at the parents and kids around them, laughing and chatting. They couldn't believe that people lived like this. Happy, full, fat. Stealing from bins at the back of the kitchens was the closest to restaurant food they'd ever been. Opposite them were their heroes, Alberto Donatello and Romano Ivetta. The Camorristi were not eating; they were sipping espresso and talking in hushed tones. Soon the kids would be back on the streets, running the rounds, delivering their small plastic packs of heroin and cocaine. They got no pay for their labour, just food, the hint that one day they could have a future within the System and the most valuable thing of all, respect from their peers.
'You want some wine? I think maybe I'm gonna take a glass of red.' Donatello poured himself some. He was twenty-seven and looked like a young Al Pacino with a beard.
'Not me.' Ivetta put his palm over his glass. 'I think I'll go to the gym.' He rolled up the sleeve of his black T-shirt and a tattooed male angel in chains grew in stature as he ostentatiously flexed his biceps. On the opposite arm was one of St Michael slaying a demon. Ivetta's body bore another twenty, all forms of angels and demons, ink-on-skin illustrations of his own mental struggles.
It had been a good morning. The boys had done well. Their deliveries had grossed a cool three thousand euros. Not a fortune, but the day was only half done and the kids were only one group of the six that Donatello and Ivetta ran. The boys pulled in an average of 5k per day per gang – 30k in total – and they worked six days a week. All in all, it added up to a chunky 180k a week, just short of three-quarters of a million per month. And, if the two Camorristi pushed the kids a little, they should gross almost ten mill for the year.
Running smack and charlie through a pipeline of juveniles was smart practice. If the kids got caught, they landed tiny sentences, maybe even just court warnings. But if any of the adult clan members were arrested, then they were looking at lock-ups north of five, sometimes ten years.
A waitress with blonde hair and dyed black ends cleared plates and handed out dessert cards to the boys. They were barely able to read the menus but the pictures lit up their eyes. They were still pointing and deciding when Ivetta suddenly snatched the cards from their hands and told them to get back to work.
The kids made no complaints. They grabbed their Nike rucksacks and headed for the door. The youngest doubled back to take a final gulp of his cherry Coke.
'You should have let them finish,' said the tall, dark-haired man joining them. 'I'm sure we all remember from prison that a well-fed workforce is much more willing.'
The two henchmen, aware that they were merely older versions of the boys they'd just sent away, ordered more coffees and settled back to hear Bruno Valsi's plans.
33
Campeggio Castellani, Pompeii Franco took Rosa's sack to the pit.
It was long and deep and located in a field at the back of the campsite, more than a kilometre away from the last of the caravans. Grandpa Toni had been rich once and had had big plans for the land. Plans which, like most things in Grandpa Toni's life, had never materialized.
Only Franco came to the pit. Paolo would help him tour the shops and restaurants, collecting the trash in their old white van. But back at the site, only Franco would drive through the fields, dump the bags and spend hours burning the garbage. He loved nothing more than his fires. The flames soothed him. They broke chains in his mind and let his thoughts fly free.
Rosa's bag in hand, he slithered down the steep banking, his feet skating in wet mud that had been scorched black. Birds and rats scuttled and flapped, loath to leave the scraps they were feeding on. He put the sack down for a moment and dug beneath his anorak for Grandpa's pistol. The old man had several guns, including a hunting rifle, but the old Glock was perfect for the rats. A fat one spun towards the outside of the pit, running around the circumference like a furry grey ball on a clay roulette wheel. He watched it scarper anti-clockwise, took aim in front of it and squeezed. Boom! Perfetto! Franco felt a surge of adrenaline as blood and skin sprayed into the mud banking. But no sooner was the animal dead than it was forgotten. He'd not come to kill. Not this time.
The centre of the pit was where he normally built his fires and the far left-hand corner was where he hid his trophies. He sat there now, perched on a giant wooden bobbin that had once been wound with heavy-duty cable. He plucked at the black skin of the bag until it came away. Milk cartons, cereal packaging and tea bags tumbled out. He put them to one side. A cigarette with lipstick on the filter, a teenage fashion magazine, cotton wool with make-up on – he made a separate pile for those. Gradually, he built up a stack of anything he thought might have come from Rosa. Things touched by Rosa. Having items she'd owned made him feel as though he was part of her life. Even if it was only part of what she didn't want any more.
He unfolded a tissue. It was lightly perfumed and bore the pink outline of her lipstick. He lifted it so the dull daylight illuminated the place where her lips had been. Then he put his mouth against the imprint and closed his eyes.
Inhaled her perfume. Tasted her kiss. Slowly the tissue paper dissolved in his mouth. He ran his tongue over his teeth and swallowed. A trace of her inside him. Heavenly. Like Holy Communion. A micro-particle of the body and blood of Rosa Novello.