From Humble Beginnings (Joe Steel) (10 page)

Strolling over to the terrace doors, I open them and walk towards the railing.  Angelo and Clordina aren’t the only things that stink around here.  There’s a fetid smell and it makes me rear back.  Directly beneath the terrace is a small flower garden, which is illuminated and then the river.  Wondering why the water stinks at this particular point, I happen to see a shadow in the midst of the gloom. 

“Oi! Who the hell are you?” I call out, noticing that the shadow is skulking away.  Squinting, I watch as the figure steps into the vicinity of the flower garden and I finally get a good look at him.  “This is private property.” Whether he understands me or not, I don’t know, but hopefully my tone tells him to piss off if he’s trespassing.

“I know it is,” came the heavily accented voice.  As the man nears, the stench comes too. “I work here. I’m Marco.”

I blink as a man, looking suspiciously like a tramp appears out of the darkness.  “In what capacity?” I demand, not refusing to take the man’s word as gospel.

“I am the gardener and the driver.” The last was said sulkily.

“I met the driver this evening.  He brought me from the airport.  He certainly wasn’t you.” As polished as Angelo was, I doubt he’d ever smelled as bad as this man had in his life! He probably took baths in his Armani aftershave. 

“No.  I wasn’t allowed to collect you.”

“Who said that?”

“They forbidded me,” he answers and I don’t care that his grammar is appalling; I’m just relieved that he can make himself understood. 

“Who did?”

“They did.”

“They? Who are they?”

“Them. The bosses,” came the retort. 

Before I could ask who the hell the bosses are, the man darts away into the shadows.  I’m partly relieved.  His smell was making my eyes water!

“We’re the bosses,” I mutter under my breath, frowning in the direction of the man cum tramp cum gardener cum
supposed
driver.

What’s that about then?

Why is the usual driver, even as smelly as he is,
forbidded
, as he phrases it, from collecting us?

My questions regarding Angelo and Clordina have just grown in number.  And Cass can fancy the arse off Angelo as much as she wants, I’ve found something else that stinks and we’ve only been here a few hours.  That really bodes well for the remainder of our stay, doesn’t it?   

And to make matters worse, they always say that things come in threes, don’t they?

I’ve always hated flying.  Being cooped up in a metal tin can, soaring through the sky in a machine that no one, not even the pros know how the damned things stay up in the air, isn’t my idea of a good time.  Give me a car or a boat.  That’s my idea of fun.  But more than anything, even the flight, I hate the day after.  I’ve hardly crossed a dozen time zones but I still feel jetlagged.  And I always do.  It must be something to do with the air system on board; or the too-fast motion of arriving in one country after crossing seas and mountains doesn’t sit well with me. 

I’ve never been a morning person either, but today, waking up is harder than usual, dragging myself out of bed even more difficult.  I’ve a slash on my cheek from yawning during shaving and the bastard won’t stop weeping, no matter how much toilet tissue I paste on to the wound.  

I’m not in the best of moods as I trudge down the stairs out of a bedroom that looks like a tart’s boudoir and head towards the equally depressing blood red dining room. Cass is already there and she’s a lot perkier than I am.  But that wouldn’t be all that hard! Feeling like death warmed up in the face of executive vitality, it’s no wonder I come a cropper in the looks department. 

She’s reading a paper,
la Repubblica
, and just the sight of all that Italian gives me a headache.  The idea of having to rely on Clordina as a translator is a nightmare.  I might just have to stick to Cass’ side for the entire trip, because I’d only trust the Italian hottie as far I can throw her.  She’s as deceptive as hell and that is only my first impression!  The very notion of trusting her with private and confidential company information has me sinking to my seat with a groan. 

“You look like you had a rough ni
ght.  What did you do after I went to bed?”

“I slept!” My grouchy voice is rasped with early morning gravel.  “I’m not a morning person.”

“I’d never tell.  Amazing how I didn’t realize that before though, huh?” she asks, slowly pushing the paper down to the table and starting to eat her breakfast again. 

Breakfast consists of a small bowl of fruit and a cup of coffee.  Oh, and a yoghurt. 

No wonder she’s so skinny. 

Although in fairness, Juliet’s on the border of being too thin and yet, she ate more than me that one time I stayed over at her flat.  That was probably one of the few times in my life that I woke up in a good mood.  A rare commodity for me.  Deep down, I’m a rebellious teenager.  Always refusing to wake up until the last minute, before literally having to fling myself out of bed to ensure that I do actually get up and don’t sink back into sleep. 

Brigida appears with a thin, bone china mug on a tray and a selection of papers.  She places the tray at my side and asks, “Coffee, signor?”

“Please.
Black.”

“Sugar?” she asks, hand hovering over a silver bowl loaded with sugar cubes. 

“I can manage myself. Thank you.”

She shrugs and hands me the bowl.  “Would you like something hot for breakfast? An omelette?”

“Please.  An omelette with grilled tomatoes.”

She nods and leaves the tray with the papers before departing herself. 

“Odd woman, that,” Cass murmurs as she glances at the housekeeper’s retreating back. 

“In what way?”  From what I can tell, she’s no odder than anyone else around here. 

“Her eyes.” Cass shrugs.  “They see and yet, they don’t.”

“It’s no wonder you reached the position you’re in thanks to observations like that!” With a roll of my
own eyes, I ask, “What is that supposed to mean?”

“It means that something is not right with our housekeeper.”

“Like what?”

“I’ve been thinking.  You were right.  They were a bit too heavy-handed last night.”

“Who? The escorts.”

Cass sighs.
“Yes.  And she’s dodgy as well.”  She jerks her head towards the kitchen.

“Woman’s intuition?”

“Maybe.  Or common sense.”

As she spoke, Marco appears.  Safe to say the stench of manure also popped on to the scene.  In fact, that was the only way I recognized him.  The guy must roll aroun
d under the rose bushes to stink so badly.  In comparison to his wife who has the faint tang of bleach about her, he’s night and she day.  How she could bear to be anywhere near him with that pong, I’ll never know. 

He looks as bad as he smells.  Having glimpsed him in the half shadows, I didn’t really get a good picture of the man, but now, I can say he certainly lives up to that odour! Ratty hair, the black curls streaked with salt and pepper, but shining with the wad of grease matting the bird’s nest.  His skin is olive and marked by the sun; his eyes and mouth are lined and heavily wrinkled as are his cheeks.  As he mumbles something to Cass, I can see the stain of nicotine on his teeth and fingers.  His clothes look as though they’ve never been washed; with huge stains on them of substances I’ll
rather leave to my imagination. Ragged trousers with holes at the knees, a shirt that is sun-bleached and already damp with sweat.  

It’s quite amusing to see Cass’ nostrils quiver with revulsion, something that only deteriorates as he steps beside her and hands her a rather ragged box, about the size of a shoebox.  At close proximity, the
perfume
of manure must have been overwhelming, but I’ll hand it to her.  She doesn’t throw a hissy fit or demand that he sod off, merely accepts the box graciously with a nasal “
grazie
.” 

Marco was on the brink of trudging off, when Brigida appeared with my omelette in her hand.  The instant she set eyes on him, I could see there was no love lost.  Immediately, a flood of voluble Italian spewed out of her mouth.  It was the most uncontrolled I’d ever seen her; not that I’ve seen much of her, but she’s one of those people who controls everything about their person and their world.  She’s a type; one I’ve come across on a frequent basis. 

The burst of Italian holds none of the passion or musical qualities that the language is renowned for; it’s bitter; harsh.  Spat out with a real dislike.  Marco flushes.  His dirt and nicotine stained fingers curling into his palms; beneath the filth, I can see the whitening of his knuckles as he takes his wife’s anger on the chin.  Regardless of that slight show of aggression, I can also see the lack of bruises and realize that Marco isn’t to blame for his wife’s shiner. 

So, that begs the question, who was?

My eyes dart to Cass who is watching the argument with a strained look on her face; something that comes as a shock.  Bernard has a temper.  I’d have thought, with their close relationship, that she’d be accustomed to the sound of yelling.  And that
was
the source of her tension.  It’s evident to anyone with eyes – and, I’m not the most perceptive of people, but even I can sense that!

Cass’ head is bowed and she’s fidgeting with the package.  I can see the jerky movement of her fingers as she pulls at the twine wrapping the four sides of the box and blocking out the argument, because it’s no fun if I can’t understand a bloody word of it, I watch as she grabs a knife and begins sawing at the string. 

The argument disappears to the background as the strands break apart and she opens the flaps of the lid.  Her face immediately blanches, before turning bright red and then reverting to pasty white.  Her eyes dart to mine and they’re wide; sightless.  Her entire body begins to tremble and the sound of my chair scraping backwards as I try to reach her is drowned by the sound of the plate in Brigida’s hand being hurled at Marco’s head.  The plate shatters an inch away from her husband’s body and being a smart man, Marco instantly scuttles off. 

Brigida was gasping with her rage by the time I’d rounded the table to get to Cass.  Not that I could really see her.  My entire concentration is on my colleague, but I could hear her panting breaths as her anger works its way through her. 

“What up Cass?” My words are slow and astounded as I look down into the package.  The so-called innocuous package.  Ha!  The battered and slightly rumpled carton contained a hand. 

An honest to God, severed hand.

Blood had congealed around the cut; a ragged cut with blackened and purple flesh rimming it.  The sight of the bone has me grimacing as does the blood that has pooled around the hand.  The nails were neat, trimmed and clean, save for the blood crusting the edges.  The fingers were curled, the palm open and there, in the centre of the obsolete life lines, rested a ring. 

Picked out with fairly large diamonds; diamonds that wouldn’t have looked out of place on an engagement ring, the letter ‘P’ glittered.  In the background, like a buzz, I can hear Brigida
apologizing, but I ignore her, ignore the sounds of clattering as she picks up the remnants of the plate and my breakfast. 

My appetite has disappeared anyway.

Sensing that she’s collected the pieces and is stood at my side, my head darts to look at her and I see the instant that her eyes clash with the severed hand.  A curious stillness sweeps over her.  Unlike the immediate blanching as had occurred with Cass, Brigida merely swallows and sucks in air between her teeth.  No part of her really reacts.  She doesn’t scream; nor does she jerk in panic and let the omelette and porcelain shards rain down on to the floor.  She does nothing.  Her eyes...  not even her pupils dilate.  It’s like she’s been in the deep freeze. 

Another thing leaps to my attention. 

With Marco’s stench rapidly escaping the room, I could smell a faint odour from the box.  My stomach twists at the idea of the hand rotting and quickly, I grab the box, careful to grip it from the underside as the blood had pooled and would have weakened the carton’s tensile strength.  The last thing we need is for the damned thing to drop on to the floor! Christ, there’s enough red in this room as it is!

There’s a door leading off the dining room and I can only assume it’s the kitchen.  I’m right.  My eyes glance off the surprisingly modern utilities and white goods, although in this case, it’s more a case of
stainless steel goods
.  I head to the fridge and one-handed, drag out a cheeseboard and dump it on the counter.  Replacing it with the box, I shut the door and seeing that Brigida has followed me, her eyes following me in that curious way that is enough to have me frowning at her with unease. 

I can’t say that she’s completely unaffected, because in her own way, she is.  She’s frozen.  No reaction whatsoever, which means she’s either a monster or something, is happening underneath the surface. 

From her current stare, I can’t tell which.  She’s looking at me in a perverse way; I can imagine her reaching for a knife and sinking it into my gut with little to no difficulty.  It’s like a scene from a horror movie, and I don’t know why.  It’s that creepy a frightening stare.  That isn’t one hundred per cent proof of the fact that she’s a nutter, but it sure is unnerving!  Just as I’m envisaging the slide of knife into flesh, her head tilts to the side and she asks, “I call the
polizia
, yes?”

“Please, Brigida,” I murmur, relieved as she walks over to the phone on the wall and makes a call.  Once again, there’s none of the panic I’d expect as she recounts the details to the proper authorities. 

Maybe I’ve been watching too many B-movies?  I’d have expected her to scream and faint; or throw up.  Some extreme reaction.  While Cass did none of the latter, she at least blanched.  There was some reaction! With Brigida, it was almost as though she wasn’t unaccustomed to violence. 

And while the shiner on her cheek is proof of that, there’s violence and there’s
this
.  It takes some real sick bastard to chop off another person’s hand!

Turning away, I retreat to the dining room and leave Brigida to the police.  Cass is shaking; shock has set in and as she raises her glass with orange juice to her lips, her hand is shuddering so badly that the liquid sloshes from side to side.  Spilling more on the tablecloth than she eventually gets into her mouth.

“That was real, wasn’t it? Not just a prank,” she asks, her voice quivering like the rest of her. 

“Yeah.  It was real.” It’s hard for me to swallow.  At the back of my eye, the memory of that severed limb with its ragged bone just popping out from the torn flesh pops up.  Christ, I don’t think I’ll ever be able to forget that. 

“Why?” She shakes her head.  “Why would anyone send that to us? To me?”

“It’s a warning.  Obviously.”

“A warning against what? For God’s sake, we’re bringing employment back to the town.  The factory was the town’s sole source of work.  They should be hugging us, not sending severed hands to our door!”

“I think we need to ask Bernard.  He must know more than he’s telling.”

She huffs.  “When doesn’t he?  He’s probably setting us up for another damn lesson; remember Manchester?  Sending us up to that bloody factory to enquire about purchasing it and finding it out it wasn’t even up for sale!  Well, dealing with this kind of shit isn’t on my CV.  You can tell him that, when you call.”

Pulling out my mobile from my pocket, I dial the numbers for Bernard’s private line.  Within three buzzes, the call connects.  “Joe? Why are you ringing so early?”