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This time the Inspector didnât reply. He thought that no one deserved such a terrible ordeal of pain. No one. He kept the thought to himself.
âShe was torn apart by that terrible disease, David. It was as if⦠as if someone had decided to measure out her pain little by little. To eradicate her from this life with brief painful jabs.â
The man paused, then he continued with a voice-which although calm, also carried an edge of anger.
âI hope I wonât go like she did. I hope that one day I wonât end up like my mother. A slow agony. I hope that when my time comes, it will be something quick, fast, and painless. I couldnât bear to be trapped inside the prison of a long illness. Because being ill is like being in jail.. The fact that you are bedridden, that you are not self sufficient anymore, that you have to depend on others ⦠That is, all of this is the same as serving a life sentence for a crime committed. Actually, itâs worse, far worse â¦â
He stopped. He took a breath and stared in the direction of the ground under which his mother had just been buried. A tear ran down his cheek.
â⦠Because the only crime attributable to my mother is that she was victim of that damned cancer. Thatâs why I hope that when my time comes â¦â
âDonât think about it now, Umberto,â the Inspector said, bringing the otherâs words to an end. âYouâve got an entire life ahead of you. You must think about overcoming this test. The love for your job will save you, youâll see. It was the same for me, too.â
David thought he had been convincing, but his friend replied with bitter resignation.
âDo you think so?â
The question hung between them, illuminated by the headstones candles. David didnât bother replying. And what could he have said to his friend to console him? More pointless words?
âI think not,â continued Visconti. âNow I am alone. My life will never be the same again.â
David understood that the recent loss of a loved one takes away oneâs will to go on, to pick yourself up again, to move forward. To live. He had known it too. But he also knew that time would set things right again. In these circumstances, the passing of time is the only remedy to heal the wounds that everyone carries in their hearts.
âBe strong, Umberto,â he said, putting an arm around his shoulders. âYouâll see, itâll get better. I, too, have gone through this.â
Visconti gave a hint of a smile; in an attempt to reassure his friend-who was trying to comfort him-that his words were appreciated.
But inside he knew now that his mother was dead, depriving him of the last love he had left, his life was going to change radically.
David did get one thing right, though, when he said: the love for his job was going to save him.
That was true. Even if Walker and Visconti didnât see it the same way.
CHAPTER 2
He was pleased with himself for deciding not to drive his car to the church. First of all because, due to the traffic, he never would have made it on time to the service; and then because he also would have had to do some walking. He kept seeing Umbertoâs dismayed face and it reminded him of his own similar pain. He, too, had lost both his parents. And although his mother had been gone now for five years, her memory was more vivid than ever.
This thought veiled his eyes with melancholy, while the stinging cold continued to vehemently stab his face. He slowed his pace to a halt and the echoing of his footsteps seemed to continue for another second before stopping. He slipped his hand into his overcoat pocket, searching for the package.
When he found it, he opened it and extracted a Marlboro. He brought it to his lips and rolled it from one side of his mouth to the other. He returned the package to his pocket and resumed walking, taking deep draws from the still unlit cigarette. He had always liked smoking. His only vice, and he clung to it dearly.
Then, his motherâs face instantly appeared.
It was the face of a woman with only a few days left to live. Ashen, framed by dishevelled hair that time and illness had turned grey. Her eyes were lifeless, sad, and were struggling to see.
Alzheimerâs and a metastatic carcinoma were taking her away. That poor woman had been unable to utter a word for days and, according to the doctors, her brain couldnât understand what was going on around her anymore.
The day before she was gone forever, she made a sort of recovery; a moment of clarity. She had her eyes wide open and was trying to keep her head â which until then had been a weight dangling from side to side - still.
âMum?â he called in disbelief.
Then he turned to check if Carolina, the nurse that was looking after his mother, was still there. She wasnât.
His mother had lifted one arm, trying to extend it towards him and that gesture was draining her of all the energy she had left. He had welcomed her hand between his and stood there staring at her, confident that something extraordinary was going to happen.
The woman blinked her eyes several times, trying to focus on the images in front of her. Her mouth opened in a grin and her hand started to tremble, while her breathless voice was coming through with difficulty.
âDavid, m-mhy d-d-hearâ¦â
Distorted words were coming from her twisted lips.
â⦠ss-h-k-keep on sshmoukeeng, if hhhyou c-canât do⦠uithout â¦emâ¦â
At that point she had had a small breakdown and a snarl of pain deformed her face.
He had squeezed her hand, to make her feel his presence and at the same time to encourage her to continue.
The womanâs head had fallen forward.
âMum?!â he called out loud.
His mother had raised her head again and she had started blinking her eyes again.
Then, certain that sight had abandoned her, she had closed her eyes. Defeated.
He stood there staring at her for what seemed an eternity. Then, the womanâs distorted voice had come back.
â⦠But plheashe ⦠itâs for u hoo⦠art a mmlyâ¦I whuont hhee you sttleouwn â¦â
âWhat?â he asked her.
The woman had stuttered some more, but they seemed more like moans caused by her pain than contorted phrases.
âWhat did you say, mum?â he repeated, placing his hand on her shoulder and shaking her lightly, but the womanâs head was now dangling again.
He stood there looking at the bed sheets moving slowly with the rhythm of his motherâs weak breathing.
Then, Carolinaâs silhouette had peeked into the room.
âWhatâs going on?â she had asked. âI heard you shouting.â
He didnât think it necessary to tell her what had happened. That was the last dialogue between mother and son and, even though he hadnât understood some words, certainly he was not going to ask advice of others. He was convinced that his mother had woken up â with the help of some kind of divine intervention â in that precise moment, because they were alone in that room. And because he was going to be the only recipient of those words.
At that point he had brought his motherâs gaunt hand to his lips and kissed it. Then he had stood up from the bed and gone into the living room. He had taken a biro and written those last words his mother had reserved for him on a post-it note. He was convinced that they meant something important. Not so much because they were her last words, but mainly because saying them had been so extremely hard for her.
When he came back from that memory, he realised that he was almost near the Metro station. He slowed down and felt his trousers back pocket. Touching his wallet reminded him of the treasure inside it. He felt some kind of relief and lit that cigarette, now soaked in saliva. He inhaled the smoke, kept it in his lungs for a moment and finally let it out to mix with the icy-cold air.
When his mother was still alive not a single day would pass without her telling him to âstop with those damned cigarettesâ. And then, on her deathbed, she had told him the exact opposite. Who knows why.
He wondered if one day he was going to be able to decipher her last words. Since then almost five years had passed and he hadnât succeeded yet.
He took his last drag of âpoisonâ then, flicking the cigarette butt with his two fingers, he tossed it away. He took the stairs leading to the Metro Red Line. When he arrived at the platform, he saw the train leaving. He stood and watched it until it was swallowed by the dark tunnel.
He looked around and realized that he was alone. A lonely man.
That thought provoked in him a smile, but, at the same time, a sense of emptiness. For the first time in his life he was afraid. Not for what might have happened to him. But for what he was.
A lonely man.
CHAPTER 3
The man saw the girl with the apron approaching. He stood and stared at her, while he was enjoying the alcohol flowing in every nook and cranny of his brain.
âYour whisky, sir,â said the waitress, placing the glass on the small table.
Raffaele Ghezzi thanked her with the wave of a hand, but didnât bother to waste a single word. He sat and looked at the blondeâs curvy body leaving with an empty tray in her hand.
Then, with his gaze still fixed on her round butt, he grasped with ostentatious confidence the half-empty glass and gulped down its content.
He gritted his teeth and grimaced instinctively for the burning sensation of the liquor in his throat.
He wiped his mouth with his hand. He grasped the glass that had just been delivered to him and toyed with it, spinning it slowly. He liked the clinking sound of the ice cubes against the glass. It had been a while since he had allowed himself a heavy drinking session like this one.
These recent months had been difficult ones; during which he had had to be financially responsible for the running of a house, while supporting both himself and a wife he no longer got along with. A wife that no longer loved him. And a wife who was cheating on him with another man.
His reason for hiring that Formenti guy, a private investigator specialising in marital infidelity cases was a gnawing suspicion that he had for some time. And the bill heâd had to pay â in instalments â was filed under unforeseen expenses. Another heading of the family budget, he thought, noticing the irony of it.
In the end it had been worth it-because exactly one week earlier -Formenti had brandished â right in his face - pictures of his wife with a mystery man. In the car, exchanging displays of affection-canoodling disgustingly like teenagers- in a park and even at both the entrance and exit of a motel parking lot.
That was the reason why, after a long time, Raffaele was indulging in one of those hangovers that would go down in the annals of betrayed men seeking revenge.
For some time Martina, the bitch, had been asking for a separation and was exploiting any little thing she could to blame him for their crisis.
Him! âWhen the only thing he did was work hard to earn their daily bread.
And now, with this compelling evidence obtained by Formenti, he could with certainty separate from that slut, and without owing her any kind of financial support. So long as the Italian justice system didnât pull any fast ones, because â as it is widely known âin the case of a failed marriage, men are always the ones who pay. That was the question. Any run of the mill Martina type can come along, screw around on her husband and then ask for a separation, settlement and alimony.
Yes, thatâs how it goes in the vast majority of cases, Raffaele said to himself, savouring the intense taste of his whisky.
But he was smarter than other men. He wasnât going to be fooled. He had proof. He was going to nail the bitch.
He had already given her a taste of his forthcoming triumph. A few days before Formenti had given him the pictures, he had promised her that he was going to catch her dicking around. Yes, yes, thatâs exactly what he said to her âdicking aroundâ. How heâd enjoyed saying that!
Martina hadnât believed him. Sheâd scoffed at him and gone on her way.
âThe way of the whores,â said Raffaele, in a whisper, despite himself.
Then, with his head spinning, he observed the space around him. The pub was semi-deserted, there were only three other people there. At a table to his right, there was a couple of sweethearts; while at the bar, perched on one of the fake-leather stools, there was a guy - he must have been about the same age as Raffaele - getting plastered all by himself.
Ghezzi wondered if he too had something to celebrate. He took a sip of whisky and thought about that for a moment, while savouring the strong taste of the alcohol.
At the exact moment he swallowed, the answer came to him unexpectedly. Perhaps the man was getting drunk to celebrate some success of his own, though it could never compare to his success, he thought. No, because he was Raffaele Ghezzi, the smartest of the smart, the one who had not allowed himself to be fooled by a wife who fucked around on him. He had caught her dicking around and couldnât wait to nail her for it.
He smiled, grabbed the glass and, in one gulp, he finished the last of the whisky.
He was so drunk that even walking was a struggle.
He told himself that taking his car to the mechanic had been a great idea. If heâd had to drive in that state, he would have crashed into the first wall available.
âInto the first wall,â he mumbled, sniggering.
He was even having trouble seeing the footpath now. Thank god his house was close by. He decided to walk close to the wall of the block of flats, to avoid losing his sense of direction and his balance. And who cared if he scratched his jacket a bit, he said to himself. With the good fortune that would come with being rid of an unfaithful wife â with the money he would save from the financial support that he would never give her â he could even afford to buy himself a new one. Perhaps even a jacket by one of those famous Italian fashion designers that he liked so much.
He felt his eyes growing heavy and exhaustion was getting the better of his body. And the alcohol had already got the better of his mind.
When he realised that he was only a few metres away from home, he felt revived. He could already feel the mattress under his back. He wasnât even going to undress. The most he was going to take off â and only if he felt like it-would be his shoes. Not because of the bender, but to spite that Martina bitch. Her-who every time, even before coming in, would obligate him to remove his shoes, put his slippers on and sometimes even those disposable guest slippers, like a hotel guest. And god help him if heâd even think of sitting on the bed with his clothes on.
âThe bed is made for sleeping.â He could still hear that snake like voice. âYou should only go to bed in your pyjamasâ.
Go fuck yourself, bitch! He thought. Yes, he was going to sleep with his clothes on. And with his shoes.
When he was a few steps away from his front gate, he took his mobile phone from his pocket. He wrote a text message to a work colleague and sent it. He then pulled a bunch of keys from his pocket. It took him a minute to find the right one, and another minute to insert it in the keyhole and unlock it.
The gate opened with a terrible squealing noise that would make anyoneâs skin crawl, but it had no effect on Raffaele Ghezzi. He felt good, invincible, happy. Like a drunk who - evidence at hand- is about to nail his cheating slut wife.
He reached the stairs and, grabbing the handrail, he realised that he had an amused smile fixed on his lips.
Maybe he had over indulged with the whisky, but it had been worth it. He spent a pleasant evening at the pub, in his own company, to enjoy his moment of triumph. And to make a toast to his new life that would begin as soon as he was out of that ball-breaking situation with Martina. Obviously the following day he was going to wake up with a massive headache, but that was the price you paid when you got smashed and were not in your twenties anymore.
He covered with difficulty the first two flights of stairs. He faced the next ones with more confidence and the last two with a shortness of breath that was worse than he would have liked it to be.
When he found himself at his landing, he rummaged in the front pocket of his trousers looking for his bunch of keys. He pulled them out and moved closer to his front door. In the exact moment in which he inserted the key in the hole, he noticed that it was already open.
He knew he was totally wasted but he had locked that fucking door before he went to work.
Who knows? Itâs also likely that he had forgotten to do it. It can happen, he said to himself.
He smiled again and pushed the door knocker of the house. Of his house.
He left the door open, allowing the light from outside to illuminate the hall of his flat, so he could find the lamp that sat on the small writing desk. An opaque, almost timid light lit up that corner of the living room.
Raffaele closed the door behind him and locked it with two turns. He took a deep breath. Finally at home.
He caught a glimpse of something in the semi-darkness of the living room area, which made him jump, and hit the wall behind him. Suddenly his hangover seemed to have disappeared. It happened in a fraction of a second and now he felt as if he hadnât drunk any whiskey at all.
âIâve been waiting a long time for you, Ghezzi,â said the dark figure sitting in the armchair.
Raffaele felt like he was going to faint, his legs were shaking. He tried to overcome his terror.
