Bitter Remedy
Authors: Conor Fitzgerald
Tags: #Literature & Fiction, #Mystery; Thriller & Suspense, #Thrillers & Suspense, #Suspense, #Thrillers
Contents
Everything slithered. Trillions of spores filled her lungs, eyes, nose, and throat. They settled in Alina’s stomach and chest, where gas and nausea and hunger waged war. At first, she tried to measure time through her memory of how long a day lasted. Then she tried measuring the hours by when she went to sleep and woke up. After an indeterminate period, she was no longer able to tell sleep from wakefulness. Sometimes she touched her eyes to see if they were open or closed.
Then she tried screaming as a unit of measurement. Every now and then, she would open her throat and shout for help at the top of her voice. When it came out as a croak or a whisper or a whimper, she knew very little time had passed since she last tried it; when it came out loud and raw and full of desperation, she knew some time had passed, but the sound of her own terror horrified her, and she began to wonder if it was really her doing all that shouting.
She tried to recall stories from her childhood, her travels, even the violent men. A slap or a punch now would be familiar and welcome. Male violence would mean she was alive. One time she woke up and the room was full of swirling colours, and she felt a sudden uplift of joy. But then she realized there was nothing but colours. There were no objects to which they might attach themselves. They floated like those she used to conjure up in the classroom by pushing her knuckles hard into her closed eyes. Behind them was only darkness. They were not even proper colours, more ideas of what colours might be.
Even so, she wanted to give some sort of geometrical form to them. Sometimes the yellow-green lights behind her eyeballs would resolve themselves into boxes or triangles. She could make red circles, yellow spirals, hexagons in green. She imagined an invisible demon sculpting pieces of black coal into twisted forms. Sometimes they appeared all too vividly, going far beyond mere geometrical shapes. Aborted babies, smashed faces, smiling men with black lips floated by her. Harry Potter was there, too.
Alina prayed. Not only for rescue, but preventatively, in case she died and failed to notice, and found herself unprepared on the other side.
The colours had gone. She was unsure if she was standing or lying, or perhaps seated on the ground. She put out her palms, and felt wall. Or was it floor? She pushed and felt her arms ache. She turned round and heard the squelch and pop of fungus under her spine. Lying then. She stood up and drew in the blackness though her eyes, nose, and mouth. Total, except for a tiny sliver of greyness that floated into the side of her right eye. She waited, expecting it to float into the middle and then up to the far corner of her right eye like the other optical effects had done, but it stayed there. Cautiously, she turned her head towards it, and it was gone. She tilted her head back, ready to scream again, no matter how futile and quiet the action might be, but stopped because the grey was visible again. She began to walk towards it, and it remained more or less where it was. She touched wall, vertical this time. The rectangle was gone, but reappeared as she stood back. She slid her hands up the wall, and felt it slope away from her. She felt around with her fingers, and realized it was an indentation of some sort. Overcome with a sudden wild urge that filled her with momentary strength, she jumped, stretching her fingers in the direction of where she estimated the hint of light might be. She banged her face and fell back almost senseless to the ground, but the tip of her forefinger was tingling. She had felt air.
Caterina Mattiola let herself into the apartment, closing the door softly behind her. As soon as she entered, she knew he wasn’t there. Not only his top-floor apartment, but the entire building was empty. The entire neighbourhood, for that matter. Alec had chosen to live in a new-build apartment put up by a construction company that had run out of money, or had been accused of recycling crime money, or had been embezzling public money.
‘It’s complicated,’ he had told her once. Complicated or not, the construction company had vanished, leaving the apartment block above and a line of unfinished houses below, and the site office selling them had closed.
So now he lived, alone, the only inhabitant in a tall tower block, which stood on an isolated piece of ground that had been partly cemented over, but was now returning to nature. The vista from his living room window was, on first impact, expansive. There was the blue top of the IKEA sign and, beyond that, smooth green hills, now turning orange as the sun set, rolling all the way up to the nature reserve of Veio, where she had gone twice on school trips to see the remains of the Etruscan temples. It had seemed so far away then, well outside the city, but Rome’s suburbs were moving northwards and Alec Blume was in the vanguard, his apartment overlooking the lands soon to be conquered. But then the eye was drawn downwards to the narrowness of the abandoned rows of houses and the narrow roads leading nowhere, and it became clear that the outward expansion had been halted.
‘Alec?’ She called his name, though it was clear he was not home. The sound of her own voice made her uneasy, and if he had actually answered, if any sound came back, she might have screamed.
She looked at the room. He had bought himself a large television. The few pieces of furniture were all from IKEA, presumably the one she could see out the window.
The first bedroom off the narrow corridor was filled with crates and boxes, which seemed to contain mostly books. She recognized them as the art volumes that had once belonged to his parents, but he had yet to put up any shelves and she was not sure the low-ceiling apartment could ever accommodate them. The next bedroom, the larger one, was his. A bed with three legs and a headboard fitted on backwards had been propped up vertically against the wall, an Allen key still sticking out of it. The frame included two wooden slats, splintered and split as if an angry someone had stamped on them several times. On the floor was a mattress made up with sheets and a grey-and-white chequered duvet. Beside it, on the floor, was a blue plastic reading light. On the pillow lay a copy of the book he was reading.
Austerlitz
. His neatly folded clothes were stacked on the windowsill, on an ironing board, and on an incongruous coffee table that he must have assembled in there because it was too wide to fit through the door. A sad pile of unpaired socks sat in the corner.
The bathroom was long and thin, the far end curving outward slightly in a semicircle, creating a slight outward bulge that was visible as a ripple on the brickwork on the outside of the building, presumably for decorative effect. The effect inside was to give the room the shape of a coffin, the toilet and shower sitting where the upturned face would be, the bath and hand basin playing the part of the arms, the floor and washing machine where she was, the feet. The medicine cabinet contained mouthwash, an unopened razor, and nothing else. She imagined him simply sweeping everything else into a plastic bag.
This was only her second time in his tower, as she thought of it. The first time she had been in a far more hostile mood, having kicked him out of her apartment just a few weeks before when he had proved himself incapable of being a caring father both for the child they had made together and for her son, Elia, whose dead father seemed to be a matter of complete indifference to Blume. As she was leaving that first time, he had pressed his house keys into her hands, but she had thrown them back at him, saying she was done with caring for him. She was past caring, she had told him.
But then, one day, he had left them on her desk in the police station, and when she had grabbed them and marched into his office to throw them back in his face, she found he was not there. Later that day, she learned he had taken an ‘indefinite leave of absence’. For several days all the talk, the whispers when she drew near, had been about the Commissioner Blume’s
crisi di nervi
.
Two days later, she swept the keys angrily into her handbag before going home. A week after that she had phoned him, and he had sounded . . . Fine was not the word. Definitely not fine, but he had lost none of his ability to infuriate her, which, after her anger subsided, she had found comforting. He was all right. That is what he had told her, too.
‘I am taking a break. I have been told to take a break, to avoid a breakdown, so that is what I am doing.’
‘Who told you?’
‘The doctors.’
‘Doctors, plural?’
‘You always need a second opinion with those bastards. And a third.’
‘I am glad you are seeing someone. Listen to them.’
‘One of them told me I should do something that is the opposite of what I am. I had to ask him what he meant, and he said I should try to be open-minded. And to learn how to relax.’
‘Sounds like good advice.’
‘Sounds like an insult.’
‘Take it as a challenge.’
‘You can’t fucking challenge someone to relax,’ he said in what she recognized as a return to form, and the conversation had ended shortly after.
She allowed two weeks of silence to pass, then called him again, but he was not answering his phone. So, in spite of all her promises to herself, and without quite realizing what she was doing, she had left Alessia and Elia with her mother and come all the way out here.
The kitchen was separated from the living room by a breakfast bar. He had bought himself a 1950s-style diner stool with a red plastic cushion, but it seemed unlikely that he ever ate there, seeing as the bar top was taken up by an outsized printer and photocopier, a laptop, notebooks, stationery, and papers, arranged neatly enough. In the fridge, she found a carton of milk and smelled it. It had gone off, but only by a few days. A lump of cheese sat like an unused bar of soap on the middle shelf. Three bottles of Nastro Azzurro beer lay on their sides, which angered and dismayed her, and sent her searching through the rubbish bags to see how many empties he had left, but she found only a closed bag bulging with wastepaper and cardboard. He must have taken the bottles out with the rest of the waste before he left. Alcoholics like to hide their empties.
She turned her attention to the paper and printouts, expecting to find case files. He would sometimes look at old files and point out mistakes that had been made, and he liked to bring home profiles of victims, perpetrators, charts showing connections between suspects. But, apart from a printout of an IKEA brochure showing different shelving solutions and, oddly enough, a Wikipedia entry on herbal teas and a colourful catalogue on Bach Flowers, there was nothing.
She tore open the bag containing the wastepaper. It consisted mostly of pizza boxes, which he had conscientiously ripped up into small pieces, along with a few torn sheets of A4 paper printed on both sides; she took them out, spread them on the floor, and looked at them, working out their order. Two intact ones had to do with SIULP, the police union, and pension rights. Another page, stained with tomato sauce from a pizza and missing its top half, was something about a villa:
. . . is sadly dilapidated but remains a handsome and ample building whose stone façade contains only a few faint streaks of the milk-and-lime red paint that had once made it stand out so clearly against the green garden that surrounds it.