

# DRAWN IN

## a novella by Nigel Bird

### Published by Sea Minor 2016

### copyright © 2016 Nigel Bird

### \---

### All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without permission of the author. Nigel Bird has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

### Digital art by Nguyễn Minh Trí

### Photography by Cathleen Tarawhiti

### Models - Shondalah Pinny and Tim Foley

### All characters in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

# About This Book

Things haven't been going well for Natalie Swift. Ever since she witnessed the murder of her boyfriend she's been struggling to keep her world together. Her vacation in Florence should allow her to soak up the culture she loves and get some rest, but her plans go awry as soon as she arrives in town.

Rory's also in Florence. He's Natalie's dead boyfriend and he can't seem to leave her alone.

His plan is to coax her to join him on the other side. The worrying thing for Natalie is that he has always been very persuasive.

Arturo is a street artist. His pictures are of the highest quality. They're also the portals through which he collects souls. He's dishy, romantic and immortal and he's turning Natalie's head in a way that Rory doesn't appreciate one bit.

And Barabbas? He's an imp with a heart of darkness sent to sort things out when Natalie interferes in the soul collection of a young child.

_Drawn In_ is an engaging tale that follows what happens when mere mortals start meddling with the natural order of the universe. For all of the characters involved, this story really is a matter of life and death.

# Episode One

Dee. I should have listened to the doctors. It's way too early to be alone. Send me something to cheer me up. Love you lots, Nat xxx

I press send and pick up my fork. Spear a spinach leaf and a slice of tomato and put them into my mouth. The dressing's lush, all fresh herbs and virgin oil, but I still have to force myself to chew and swallow. The food sinks to my stomach like a ball of wet cement. I push the plate away and take a sip of wine. The drink, I have no problem getting down.

The boys at the table next to mine are talking about me again. Words pour from their mouths like they're in competition, their voices as lyrical as the water in the nearby fountain. It's a shame that the things they say are more suited to the sewer.

"Course I wouldn't kick her out of bed, but check out those calves. If my dad shaved his legs they'd look better than that."

"And those shoulders. Perhaps she works in the fields."

"Or milking cows."

"Still, she's not bad for an English woman."

"We'll see. If nothing better comes along..."

The phone vibrates on my table. New message. A selfie taken from Dee's hospital bed. She's got a pair of pants on her head and a carrot balanced on her top lip. You have to worry about the future of the country when someone that crazy can get into medical school.

I laugh out loud. It's nice to be reminded that I can.

I sip more wine, root through my handbag and find a postcard. Lots of pictures of the city with Firenze typed across the top. Cheesy as hell. Mum will love it. I find my pen and write.

You were right about Italian men. All the charm's on the surface, like frogs turned into princes. There are some nice American girls at the hotel. Tomorrow they're taking me to the Galleria dell'Accademia. Eating all my vitamins and taking the pills. N xxx

I'm looking forward to seeing my new friends in the morning. It'll do me good to have some company. Which reminds me, I must text Lucy. Tell her I'll meet her at breakfast so we can finalise the plans.

The waiter saunters by. Leans against the post box and lights up a cigarette. His eyes are deep-set and his nose bent to one side. It doesn't make him ugly, but he most definitely isn't attractive.

He checks me out, top to bottom, and his gaze locks with mine. It's intense. My body blushes underneath my cotton dress. I look away first.

When he finishes his smoke, he flicks the butt into the gutter. Returns to work and disappears inside.

I open my sketch book and select a light pencil. Close my eyes and try to remember the lines of his face. Sketch the outline as quickly as I can and add detail while it's fresh in my mind.

I jump when he appears at my shoulder. He smiles and puts a full glass of Chianti in front of me.

"On the house," he says, his words making me tingle. I've not had that feeling for ages. Not since Rory. "And now," the waiter winks at someone inside, "it's time to add a sprinkling of romance to the evening."

Above us strings of bulbs light up, bright against the dusk. They warm me on the inside and make me feel safe.

"Thanks," I say and watch him collect plates from another table. I take a picture of the lights and send it to Dee. She's missing out on the holiday, and needs cheering up as much as I do.

I stand up. Bend over in front of the sewer-mouthed boys. They shut up for the first time in an hour. Maybe I should have put my bra on after my shower. Then again, maybe not.

I smile at the waiter and head inside to the bathroom.

At _Trattoria Sapori_ , men and women share the sinks and the mirrors. Italians are chilled about these things. I put on lipstick. Brush my hair and check my teeth for stray food.

My reflection looks back at me like it wants to speak. I stop and wait for the words. The lips don't move but the words appear in my head.

" _Be careful with the waiter."_ It's not my voice, but Rory's. _"You're giving the wrong impression. Better you finish up now and go back to the hotel. Get an early night."_

I hate the way he does that. It's like he doesn't want me to get over him. I splash cold water over my face and think about what he said. I guess he's probably right. I should go home.

I return to my table and the fresh air, ready to bring the evening to an end.

On the other side of the road, a young man is drawing on the ground.

He's so handsome it's as if he's been plucked from my imagination and thrown into the scene

There's no way I can resist checking him out. I have to see what he's drawing. I take the wine, grab my bag and head over.

"Funny time to start," I say in Italian when I'm standing next to him. I'm much more confident about speaking the language now than when I arrived. My teachers would be proud.

He shrugs. His beard is a work of art, sculpted pencil thin and lining the edge of his angular chin. A pendant dangles from a chain that falls from his unbuttoned shirt and his ponytail is kept in place by a black velvet bow. He wears rectangular shades even though the night is closing in. That kind of thing normally irritates the hell out of me. I think I can forgive him.

"There aren't many people around this time of night," I explain as I glance over his shoulder.

The outline he's drawn on the pavement is of a man lying sprawled face down between the fountain and the road.

The artist's hands work quickly, selecting pastels from his box and rubbing and shading with paper-towels.

It's not long before he's finished the trousers, creases and folds immaculately placed at the bend of the knee.

"So do you come here often?"

He ignores me. Maybe the joke doesn't translate.

"Forgive me," he finally says. "Time is short." He stands to check his work and kneels again. "I must finish by 10:47. Then I can talk."

10:47? Typical of me to start a conversation with a nut job, but I guess it takes one to know one.

He sets to work on the left foot, shading the pink of a sock between the turn-up of the trousers and a brown leather shoe.

On the right he makes it all sock. He adds a hole over the big toe.

"Tell me something about yourself," I urge. "Anything. You'll still finish on time."

He looks at his watch and opens his mouth. "I'm from a long line of collectors." He sketches a shoe in the middle of the road, steps back to let a scooter go by. "Pickers, I mean. Rag and bone men."

What on earth is he talking about?

As if he's read my mind, he explains: "Two centuries ago, my ancestors raked through the garbage every night. What they found, they sold at the city walls." He draws a few coins here and there, then gets back to the main body of work.

"But _you're_ not sorting through rubbish." I look back at the restaurant. The waiter's staring at me, so I give him a little wave. He opens his hand, gestures at the lights and goes over to take an order from those loud-mouthed boys. I feel sorry for him, but there'll be others for him to charm before too long.

"Things change," the artist says. "We evolve. Your children's jobs are yet to be invented."

"I don't have children."

"You will."

If it's a chat-up line, it's not the best I've heard.

He wipes his hands and starts work on the shirt.

The picture reminds me of someone. And it's odd. Like an outline from a murder scene.

"The time please?"

I check my watch. "Ten forty-four."

He stops talking and I stop asking him things.

The shirt he draws is white. Clean and crisp like it's fresh on. Hands jut from the cuffs as if they're clawing the ground.

The artist lights a cigarette. Fills the air with exotic curls of smoke.

"Hold this, please." He passes the cigarette over for me to hold.

The silence is unsettling. I need to break it.

"Your art. It's..." How can I put it? "Unusual."

He looks up at me, eyes hidden behind his shades. Instead of answering he puts his fingers to his mouth and blows me a kiss.

I think about the waiter and check to see if he's watching. He's waving my cardigan above his head and running my way.

"You left this," he calls. "And it's getting chilly."

The lights of a car and the hum of its engine seem to come from nowhere. I want to shout at the waiter. Warn him. Get him to stop. Only the brakes screech before I can utter a word. The collision snaps the summer evening to a halt.

Something shoots from his mouth. Teeth or candy, I can't be sure.

He flies through the air like Dee when she was thrown from her pony.

He lands close by and rolls toward me.

One of his shoes cartwheels along the gutter. It comes to rest in the middle of the road.

Tinkling coins race along the cobblestones. The waiter stares at the floor like a fish at a market stall. He still has hold of my cardigan. I tiptoe over to take it back. Give it a gentle pull. His fingers clutch it tight and refuse to let go. I'm about to try again when I notice tiny dots of blood splattered along the sleeve. Decide that if he wants it that much, he can keep it.

Cracks have spread like spider-webs through the windscreen of the car. The engine revs. It reverses and the gears crunch. It jumps forward and stalls. Starts up again and speeds off along the road, a fog of exhaust clouding its exit from the scene.

I turn back to the waiter. He's lying right on top of the picture, exactly the way it was drawn. I look to the artist so that he can explain. But he's gone.

I take a drag on the cigarette he gave me. Cough my lungs up as the tobacco hits. Spit out the taste, throw the butt into the fountain. Spew a mouthful of green vomit onto the wall and watch the ripples play with the moon's reflection. I sit down, rub my arms to heat them up and wish I'd taken the doctor's advice and stayed at home. .

*

It feels like I've been cooped up inside the restaurant for an age. The foil sheet they've wrapped me in is doing nothing for me. I feel like the Christmas turkey about to be stuffed and put into the oven. I wish I was, too. The oven part, at least. I can't get warm and my teeth chatter like crazy. I want my cardigan back. It just doesn't seem like a good time to ask.

Someone puts a glass of brandy the size of a goldfish bowl into my hand.

"Drink up. It'll settle your nerves." The proprietor's mouth is turned down so that he looks like a sad puppy. He wanders around and wipes tables as though he's expecting a rush. His trousers are pulled up to the bottom of his ribs by a pair of black braces. His stomach gets everywhere half a second before the rest of him.

I lift the glass to my nose. Sniff it. The vapours make me shudder. I down the whole thing in one gulp. All I taste is alcohol and fire. My heart burns and it's good to feel a part of me come to life again.

The door opens. In walk two men wearing long coats and shiny shoes. I can tell they're detectives straight away, serious and sure of themselves like they own the city. And they're identical. Sculpted from the same slab of weathered marble.

The proprietor stops what he's doing. Throws the cloth over his shoulder and goes over to greet the men. His paws swallow the detectives' hands as they shake.

"Marco." Detective number one. "I'm sorry about your loss."

Detective number two: "Your son was a good man."

His son? The room darkens and seems to shrink.

"Have you told Lucia?"

"She's out with friends. I'm expecting her any time now." He slumps into a chair. Stretches his legs and stands one foot on top of the other. His shoes are old and worn, but the leather is well polished.

"And this is the girl who was there when the accident took place?"

Everyone looks at me. My cheeks flush. The alcohol's hitting home.

The detectives unbutton their light jackets and reveal suits and neatly pressed shirts. At last there's a difference between them. One's tie is red, the other's green. They're the wrong colours for their brown eyes.

"Natalie Swift?" Red steps towards me and blocks out half the light. "The first officers on the scene say this is your first day in Italy."

"That's right." Though it feels like a month already.

"I'm sorry your holiday had to start in such a terrible way."

"Thank you."

"Do you know anyone in town who I can call?"

There's Lucy and the rest of her gang. Not that we know each other well enough for me to have the police disturb them at this time of night. Which reminds me. I still have to send that text about tomorrow. "No, but I'll be fine."

"That's good. I hope you don't mind, but I have a few questions for you. About the accident. You saw what happened to Sergio?" He pulls out a notebook. Still hasn't bothered to introduce himself or shown a badge.

It's funny hearing the waiter called by his name. Magnifies the tragedy of it all somehow. The man died trying to get my cardigan to me and we hadn't even introduced ourselves. I nod my answer to Red's question and hope there won't be many more.

"Tell us everything." Green.

Nothing comes to mind. I shake my head to unlock the information. And then the story floods out at a hundred miles an hour.

"You saw the vehicle?" Red is all logic. The practical kind.

"A Volkswagen. I don't know what model. Blue. Possibly black. It was getting dark, and it came out of nowhere."

"The boys outside agree."

I look at them through the window, gathered around their table and fiddling with their phones as if nothing out of the ordinary has happened.

"Get a number?"

"It all happened so fast."

"Maybe it'll come to you later."

"I'll try."

"Anything you tell me will help us find Sergio's killer."

"That's all I know. Perhaps the artist can tell you more."

Red and Green lean forward. Marco's wild eyebrows curl high. He stares at me like I've lost the plot. "What artist?"

It's difficult to believe he doesn't remember. "The man drawing. I didn't get his name."

"Describe him."

I do. In as much detail as I remember. The only bit I leave out is how handsome he is.

"This ringing any bells, Marco?"

"There was no artist outside tonight."

"He was there." The anger in my voice takes me by surprise. I need to calm down. "We talked for a while." That's more like it.

"None of the other customers mentioned anyone else." He makes me feel like a suspect.

"Perhaps it was the booze." Marco mimes having a drink.

Red looks down at my empty glass. Picks it up and sniffs at it like he's acting out a part in a soap opera. "How much did you have?"

"Two glasses of wine."

"And is that a lot for you?"

Is he kidding? I'm eighteen for goodness sake. I can polish off a bottle of vino in the bath before I get ready to go out. "Not really. No."

"But it's enough to have you seeing things that aren't there."

I don't know why he's being so abrupt. It's not as if I was driving the car or anything. "He _was_ there. I know he was."

"And do you use drugs?" He looks at the others as if he finally understands.

"No. Course not." Where on earth would I score drugs in a city I barely know? And then I remember the medication. "Apart from the pills from my doctor."

"Oh?"

"Anti-depressants." This isn't a conversation I want to have with strangers. "To get me through a difficult time."

"Do these pills have any side-effects."

"Not really."

"And it's okay to mix them with alcohol?"

Not according to the list of information that comes inside the box, no. But I say nothing, just shrug, like _how would I know?_

"Did your doctor warn you that there might be hallucinations?"

Now he mentions it, I think she did. Damn it all. The last thing I want is for these guys to think I'm a nutter. I rub my eyes. Smell cigarette smoke on the ends of my fingers. Proof positive that I'm not living in a land of make-believe.

"You say he was drawing on the pavement." Green. "Then let's check out his handiwork. See whether he's a Michelangelo or a Caravaggio kind of guy."

It's the first good idea any of them have had.

Marco reaches over and peels off my foil sheet. It crinkles as he takes it away. I push myself up and let my legs take the weight. They stand firm and I'm proud that my nerves don't show.

Red and Green leave without looking back. Marco takes his mountainous frame over to the door and holds it open for me. I walk out and thank him. He follows on and we all go over to the fountain.

The detectives shine their torches at the ground. The circles of light pick up blood stains and fragments of glass sparkling like diamonds, but nothing more.

It makes no sense. They're looking in exactly the right place and yet there's no drawing to be seen. I walk on a few yards. Still nothing.

"You said the man did his work here?"

I'm too surprised to speak. I shrug my shoulders and screw up my face as my answer.

I search for something that will prove my memory isn't playing tricks. Find it. Flecks of vomit on the fountain wall from where I'd been sick. At least it proves I'm not crazy.

Something else catches my eye. A rectangle of pink. A small envelope lying on the ground. I lean in to focus on the writing. See 'Natalie' scrawled on the front.

Shivers run down my spine. There can't be more than ten people in the city who know my name and three of them are with me right now.

I look around to check that no one has seen. They're all busy scouring the street. I grab the letter and slip it into my bag.

"You sure it was over here?" One of the cops.

"Yes. Exactly where you're standing."

Red rubs his chin and shakes his head. Looks over at Marco. "Next time leave the brandy in the bottle."

"I hope it wasn't the good stuff you wasted." Green.

"I don't suppose you could spare a drink for two brothers looking for drawings in the middle of the road?"

Marco nods. "You catch the bastard, you can empty the bar."

We all head back.

Inside the restaurant, Marco sets out three glasses on top of the bar.

"I need the bathroom." I announce this as if I'm delivering a line in a play. Pick up my bag and go down the stairs. My steps echo as I go. The sound's unnerving. I run to the cubicle and lock the door. Press the light switch and the timer buzzes into action.

My hands shake as I pick open the corner of the letter. I see the slip of paper. Fish it out and unfold it.

Sorry I had to leave without saying goodbye. Meet me tomorrow. Giubbe Rosse, Piazza de la Repubblica at three. Arturo.

I let out a gasp of joy. The man exists. He's not just a figment of my imagination. And he wants to meet me for a drink. My heart pounds at the thought of seeing him again. It's wrong to be so happy when the man upstairs has just lost his son, but I can't help myself. My insides are doing handsprings.

I return the letter to my bag and check my phone. Three messages. All Dee. The last one:

Goodnight Babe xxx

I send smiley faces, flush the chain in case anyone's paying attention, then go back upstairs.

Smoke curls around the men leaning on the bar. The door opens and a woman enters. Her summer dress swishes around her knees and her dark hair bobs in time with her steps.

The men freeze. I hold my breath.

The lady looks around. Sees the policemen. A smile forms on her lips and disappears

"Darling?"

"Lucia." Marco's eyes moisten. He opens his arms and walks over to his wife.

"You're scaring me." Lucia looks at me. I think she wants me to explain. I see the years etched into her skin.

"I'm so sorry, darling." The flesh on Marco's face wobbles as he speaks. Tears roll down his cheeks. "It's Sergio..." His words trail off and his wife's face twists until all her beauty is gone. She falls into his stomach and buries her head in his chest. His enormous arms wrap themselves around her and muffle her sobs.

I can't bear to look at their pain. Wonder if I should give them the sketch I drew earlier. Decide it might only make things worse.

Red and Green are no help at all. They turn their backs to the room, pick up a bottle from the bar and fill their glasses to the brim. I wonder if this would be a good time to ask them if they could arrange for someone to drive me home.

Instead, I collect my belongings, tiptoe over to the door and open it as quietly as I can.

# Episode Two

Michelangelo's prisoners line the walls of the corridor. Half-carved from marble chunks, powerful men try and escape their earthly tombs. The beauty is immense. My eyes well up. I pull myself together and send photos to Dee to show her what she's missing.

My fingers itch to draw. The sketchbook in my bag is ready for action. If I were alone, I'd stop and work. But I'm not sure Lucy would appreciate me ignoring her.

After everything that happened last night, I'm so glad I don't have to be alone right now. And Lucy's easy company. She's a pretty lady with short-cropped hair and pale skin and she talks non-stop. I know practically everything about her already. Irish heritage. Psychology major. Doing Europe. Lover of men and hater of dogs. A habitual marathon runner with not a spare ounce of flesh on her body.

We move in to get a closer look at the Awakening Slave. Pain pours from the stone. The body twists into unnatural shapes. I can't help but think of poor Sergio, the wreckage of his corpse. I force myself to turn away towards the main event.

David stands at the end of the room, shining white under his dome of light. I block out the other tourists and the wall of iPads and focus on the statue.

"He sure is ripped." Lucy's eyes are wide open. We broke away from the rest of the group back in the Gothic rooms. I'm glad she's here. It's so much nicer than being alone.

"I can't believe he's not made of flesh." I really can't. "He looks so real."

"I want to hold his hand and take him for a walk." Lucy's in Florence for the romance. "We could wander around the city and he'd tell me stories about the old days."

I laugh at the idea. A wall of heads turns towards me. Disapproving thoughts come my way in at least ten different languages.

I ignore them and get back to admiring Michelangelo's work. Muscles push against the skin and the nipples are tight. The veins in the hands are thick and strong. He's perfect. Well, almost. His hair is daft. Those curls might have been all the rage five hundred years ago, but they look terrible now.

My attention drifts downwards to his manhood. I stifle a giggle and realise I haven't seen a naked man since Rory. God, how I wish he were with me now. A lump forms in my throat. My head fills with bubbles and my bones turn soft. I reach out and grab Lucy's arm to steady myself.

"What is it?" There's concern in her voice. "You're shaking."

I rub my temples and try to pull myself together.

"I just need a minute."

She takes a bottle of water from her bag, unscrews the top and passes it over.

I sip it and concentrate on the cool sensation in my mouth. My brain settles and my breathing slows everything down.

"Thanks." I hand the drink back and she leads me out from the crowd. "I'll be fine," I tell her, even though I'm not so sure I will be.

A guard in a smart black uniform steps forward. Ushers us to the side and opens a door to the courtyard. The heat hits my skin like a physical object. We walk over into the shade and take a seat.

She holds my hand like she's my nurse. "What the hell happened back there?"

I can't blame her for being curious. "I'll tell you about it over lunch if you're still game."

"Course I am. I wouldn't miss out on meeting your dishy Italian. Who knows, he might have a friend who needs female company."

"Maybe." Not that I'd recommend any of Arturo's friends before I get to know what went on last night.

*

Lucy checks her watch. "Are you sure he said three?"

I put the note down on the table to show her.

"It's just that I'm supposed to meet the others. Marcy gets totally stressed out if her plans don't work like clockwork." Her face is inches from mine. Now she knows my story, my personal space has disappeared. "I don't want to risk getting into everyone's bad books this early on the tour on account of some guy who's not gentleman enough to be punctual."

"I could buy you another coffee." Much as I'm grateful to her for keeping me company, I hope she says no. The prices here would put a dint in anyone's budget. "If that would help."

She checks her watch again. "No. I'd better go. I enjoyed hanging out."

"Sure."

"Sorry I can't stay." She slips a thin blouse over her milk-white shoulders, opens her bag and takes out her purse.

"Don't be silly." I can't expect her to pay. "You can get the next one."

She smiles at that. The way her eyes sparkle, she should do it more often. "Will you be okay?"

"What can happen in a bustling square like this?"

"I hope the guy shows, is all." She bends over and does the kissing thing on each cheek, only doesn't actually put her lips on me. Just makes sucky noises with her mouth.

"I'll give him half an hour."

She walks away. Waves. Trips over a pair of squabbling Chihuahuas and disappears into the crowd.

There's still a dash of coffee in my cup. It's long since gone cold and I can't finish it. A clock chimes four. He's an hour late, but I can wait longer. I call the waiter over. Order a cappuccino. Take out my sketchbook and pencils and wonder where to start. Instead of finding something to draw, I realise I'm being watched. A tiny man with a face like Quasimodo stares right at me. He's dressed all in black and chews gum with his mouth open. Soon as I see him, he pretends to choose a postcard from the rack. He can only reach about halfway up.

"I thought she'd never leave." The voice from behind me is smooth and deep. It vibrates right down in the pit of my stomach.

I turn my head and see Arturo standing at my shoulder. His lateness is immediately forgiven. He drops his bag to the floor, pulls out the chair Lucy vacated and sits opposite me. He's still wearing the shades, and he's still absolutely gorgeous.

I check on Quasimodo, but there's no sign of the ugly dwarf. I guess he didn't find me that interesting after all.

Arturo picks up my pad and opens it.

"No, don't."

"Why ever not?"

Mine will seem amateur in comparison. But I don't tell him that.

I reach out and try to grab it. He pulls back, takes it beyond my reach and turns through the pages. He rubs his chin and nods.

"You like ears?"

It's true there are a lot of them in the early pages. "I was trying to get them right. Not so much the flesh, but the space they contain. It's the way objects work within their environment that fascinates me."

"And hands?"

"The same thing."

He closes the book and passes it back. "I'm impressed."

His approval takes me by surprise. A warm glow passes through me.

"Really." He leans in. "Not all artists take the trouble to study the detail."

The word _artist_ takes me by surprise. I can't think of anything to say. Return my pad to the bag and fumble around in my brain for something that might make sense. "You picked a good spot to meet." Polite conversation. Familiar territory.

"I thought you'd like it. It's soaked through with the words of many great people." He pulls a cigarette from a soft pack and lights up. "If you come here when it's quiet you can hear them talking." His smoke curls into the air. "They speak in verse with great enthusiasm about life."

"I read that in the guide book."

"Then I don't suppose there's anything else I can tell you."

"Oh, there's plenty."

"There is?"

"You could start by telling me what happened last night."

He flicks ash onto the pavement. I get a glimpse of his eyes over the top of his shades. Dark brown yet bright and alive. "There'll be plenty of time for that later."

"There'll be a later?"

"Sure. I have the day planned out."

I wonder if he's not too confident. "And what do I have to look forward to?"

"First we watch people go by, followed by a walk along the river. After that, martini at L'Incotro, crayfish at Enoteca Pinchiorri and gelato from Grom." He's just outlined the perfect day. It's like it's my birthday in a parallel universe where nothing is broken. "After that you can choose."

Even though my medication has murdered my appetite, I reckon I could go along with that. Force myself to swallow a few scoops of sorbet. "I'm not sure I deserve such a wonderful tour of your city."

"It's the least after I can do after running out on you last night."

That's the reality check, right there, just when I was ready to float away on a carpet of happiness.

The waiter steps over and interrupts. His timing is perfect. He swings the tray to my level. Places the huge mug and saucer in front of me, switches the old bill for a new one and clears up the dirty cups. "For you sir?"

Arturo glances at the menu. "A pot of Earl Grey." The last thing I expected to hear. He looks straight at me. "I have a passion for British things." I can see from his smile that he's not just thinking about our range of teas.

"Lucky me." I decide not to tell him that there isn't much in Preston to get his pulse racing. Unless you count the bus station or The Warehouse.

"The good fortune's mine." His lines might be phoney, but I could lap them up all day long.

My head fills with static. I know what's coming. _"He's only after one thing."_ Rory's voice is loud and dry. _"The Italians are famous for it."_

"Not now," I tell him.

"Sorry?" Arturo looks puzzled.

I cover my mouth. Pretend to cough. Pat my chest and clear my throat. "I was just..." Just what exactly? "Thinking aloud." I hope I've got away with it. Take a sip of coffee.

Arturo's attention shifts elsewhere. He twitches and stands.

I follow his gaze.

Christ. A scooter is speeding right for me. My instincts take over. I cover my head and curl into a ball ready to be knocked to the ground at any moment. It doesn't happen.

The driver turns off his engine, kicks the stand out and dismounts. He holds out his hand. "Arturo." They shake.

"Valentino." Arturo doesn't seem happy to see his friend.

"I'm sorry about that." The voice comes through the open visor, addressing me. "I didn't mean to frighten you."

Valentino takes off his helmet to reveal a young face. His hair falls into place. The fringe is Justin Beiber back in the day. Hard to believe I once thought that guy was cool. I even had a poster of him on my bedroom wall.

"It's just I was in a hurry." Valentino pulls out a large brown envelope from his courier bag and passes it to Arturo. "A rush job. I'd have been here sooner only the traffic's worse than ever."

Arturo opens the envelope and lets the contents slide onto the table.

I get a glimpse of the top photo. It's black and white. There's a body on the floor, a pool of blood forming around its head. The picture beneath I don't get to see.

"At the train station in less than half an hour." Arturo speaks quickly. "Can you get me there?"

"If the traffic doesn't stop us, sure."

Arturo stands. Picks up his bag and slips the strap over his shoulder. "I must apologise again. I have to leave, but I'll be back as soon as I can."

"Wait." I get up without thinking. "I'm coming along."

He looks to Valentino.

Valentino checks me over. I guess he's figuring out whether his bike will hold my weight as well as theirs. He shrugs his shoulders and nods. "I think we can do it."

"Then let's go." Arturo takes a roll of notes from his pocket. Pulls out twenty Euros and drops it next to the ashtray.

The two men pick up helmets and pull them on. While he's distracted, I check out Arturo's body. He's tall and lithe in his leather trousers and white collarless shirt. I want to touch him.

They get onto the scooter. I sit on what's left of the cushion at the back of the seat. Valentino turns the key. The engine sings the song of a hundred tiny wasps. As we set off, the momentum pushes me back. I reach around Arturo's waist and hold on tight. The shirt is soft, his muscles firm.

Valentino swerves onto the square and accelerates. A crowd of pigeons and two old ladies with bent backs scatter.

We return to the road. Almost collide with a tiny sightseeing car pulling a chain of carriages. I half-expect the dwarf to be at the wheel, but the driver is an attractive woman of average height with long black frizzy hair. We speed under the arch that dominates the buildings. The writing at the top reads _'The old city was put out of its misery and brought back to life'_. The words catch my heart as I translate. If only the world was that simple.

As we pass the Basillica of Santa Maria Novella, it's like we're flying. My hair blows behind me, free like never before.

We skid to a halt outside the station. I get off first and Arturo dismounts. He removes his helmet and hands it to his friend.

The men shake hands and Valentino pulls away like he's got somewhere else important to get to.

Arturo turns to me. "Are you sure about this?" His voice carries concern. For a moment I doubt myself.

"I'm certain." The words are out before I can stop them. He grabs my hand and we run inside.

The space is huge and elegant. The marble floor wouldn't be out of place in a palace.

We stop in the middle of the foyer. Arturo takes the photo out of the envelope and studies it. "We need exactly the right place."

I look at the picture to check for clues. "Platform Six," I say, pointing at half a number in the corner. "It couldn't be anything else."

He gives my hand a squeeze and we set off again. We glide through the crowd as if they're not there. We arrive at the terminal. Arturo points to an enormous pillar and runs over. He checks the photo again to work out the precise location. Takes off his bag, pulls out his tray of pastels and begins.

The memories of last night haunt my thoughts as I realise what's happening. My stomach cringes and the coffee churns inside. I think I'm going to be sick. Breathe deeply and try to gain control. The smell of hot oil makes me feel worse. My body tells me to leave. I battle the feeling and fold my arms across my chest. Wander to the pillar and fall against it. The cold stone chills my spine and grounds me once again. I need a distraction. It doesn't take long to find one.

" _You know you shouldn't be here."_ Rory's back. _"There's no need to hang around. All this will bring you is trouble."_

"I need to find out what this is all about."

" _He's no good for you, Nat. Deep down you know that."_

Rory might be right, but I don't want to leave. "It's not about him. I just want to understand." I shake my head and send Rory away. Go over to see what's going on.

Arturo is a genius. His fingers are nimble and quick. Within seconds, he has the outline of a man. The details follow. He adds lines and smudges at them until things come together at once, like a mountain suddenly cleared of mist. Even with the puddle of blood beside the skull, it's a thing of beauty. I admire it and do my best to block out what I sense is about to happen. Remember that he still has another picture to copy.

"The time?"

I check my watch and take a second opinion from the arrivals board. "Quarter to five."

He looks pleased. The speed he works, another ten minutes should be enough. He holds his photograph up and studies it. Rushes over to a new spot and drops his bag. Commuters carry on with their business without noticing a thing.

Arturo kneels and begins.

His second figure is tiny. Less than half the size of his first. At first I wonder if it's the dwarf from earlier. But Arturo draws a dress. Shades it in using brilliant blue. Takes a red and adds stains like poppies by Monet.

As the hair and the face are added, a young girl emerges from the colours, a doll clutched to her chest.

I scan the crowd and find her. She's over by the newspaper stand. I doubt she's even five years old. She runs in circles singing and laughing. The dress and doll are the same as the ones in Arturo's sketch. It's uncanny.

I remember what happened last night. Try to put everything together. Wonder if the girl is going to go the same way as Sergio. If she's in danger, I need to intervene.

I could grab the girl and run. It would be worth a scolding from her parents and another brush with the police if I could keep her safe.

Or I could call for help and hope that someone believes me.

The clock says four fifty-four. Less than a minute till the deadline.

My gaze fixes upon two backpackers swigging their drinks. They give me an idea. I'm over there before the bottles leave their mouths. Snatch the water and run.

"Get off the grass!" the man in the dreadlocks shouts at my back, his Aussie accent giving the statement the inflection of a question. I don't bother to see whether he's following and keep going.

I stand over Arturo. See the detail in his work. The thread in the hairband and the scar on the girl's knee. I pour the water over his art. The liquid spreads over the dress and the face, but not quickly enough. I stand on the drawing. Rub the soles of my shoes over it like I'm trying to put out a fire. I don't stop until everything beneath me is an unrecognisable mess.

Arturo gets to his feet. His mouth is open and his hands ask the question.

The Australian with the locks steps between us before I can answer. I've never been so happy about being in trouble. He grabs at his empty bottle. Points a finger in my face.

Explosions in the foyer stop everything. I've heard those noises before. I'm suddenly in Blackpool walking along the sea front with Rory chasing behind. These are gunshots, for sure.

I turn towards the noise.

Two men sprint along the platform. The first wears suit trousers, an open-necked shirt and a heavy gold chain. The second is short and dumpy and struggling to keep up. Sweat patches darken the area around his armpits. There's another bang and the smartly dressed man bends over and limps towards the exit.

His friend keeps running. He's not so fast on account of him being on the round side. A third man appears at the end of the empty train track. His stubble is thick and his sunglasses are big round mirrors. He has a gun in his hand and it's pointing our way. It flashes and the noise echoes around the huge arena. My ears go numb. Which makes me luckier than the fat man trying to get away. The bullet catches him in the head. He clatters to the floor where Arturo was working. Blood trickles from his skull and forms a bright halo on the stone.

The backpacker falls to the floor. Others do the same. The station is a mass of prostrate bodies and screams.

I sprint over to the girl in the blue dress who is curled up in the arms of her mother. Stand between her and the gun.

The man with the gun shoots again. He runs away from us this time, placing his feet between commuters as though he's playing a primary school game. He disappears from view in pursuit of the injured man.

I go over to Arturo who is the only other person standing.

My hands shake. I watch the twitching fingers of the dying man on the floor. Picture Rory lying there in his place. Blink the image away and gulp in a lungful of air.

My skull empties and I fall. My thoughts disappear down a long tunnel. There are posters on the walls. I seem to be in all of them. In one I'm with my mum. Another with the lacrosse team. There's Dee at the prom, arms draped over Ian Brown. And finally, Rory.

I hit a wall. The journey's over.

The Australian lies beneath me. His elbow digs into my ribs. "Strewth," he shouts and pushes me away.

"Sorry," I tell him and use his shoulders to lever myself up. I look over to Arturo and can't believe he would have taken the girl. She's safe and well, curled into a ball in her mother's arms, sucking her thumb and clutching her doll to her chest. I turn to the exit. Focus on the daylight outside and run towards it for all I am worth.

Arturo calls my name over the screams and shouts of the crowd. He somehow understands that he shouldn't follow.

I keep running. Collide with a child coming the other way. But it's not a child. It's the dwarf from the square I look away for a moment while I regain my balance.

"Are you following me?" I say, turning, but there's no one there.

One thing's for sure. When I get to my room, I'm chucking my medication in the bin. It might be helping with the depression, but it's sure as hell not keeping me sane.

# Episode Three

"Pick up the phone Mother." On the seventh ring there's an answer.

"Sorry I'm not in just now." My throat tightens at the sound of her voice. "If you leave a message..."

How dare she be out? I slam the receiver down and stamp my foot. It doesn't change a thing.

I pace the room. Push open the wooden shutters.

Light floods in. I lean on the windowsill and take in the fresh air. Over the road the baker locks the door of his shop and wanders off towards the bar on the corner. I wish my life were as simple as his.

I half expect to see the little guy in black lurking in the shadows. Check the alleys and corners. There's no sign.

" _Jump."_ Rory again. And I do. Out of my skin.

"Don't say things like that," I tell him. "You know how bad I am with heights." But it's too late. The seed is sown. The urge to throw myself onto the pavement grows inside. I picture myself lying on the floor, my body twisted out of shape just like I'm in one of Arturo's drawings. My fingers press into the stone sill and I screw my eyes shut. The feeling recedes. I step back inside, close the window and sit at the desk.

" _Go on_." He's nothing if not persistent.

"Why would you even want me to?"

" _I miss you."_

"But we're always together."

" _Only for talking."_ His voice has moved to somewhere else. Behind me, I think _. "I want to touch you. Hold you. Kiss you all over."_

How I loved the way he did that.

"I'm not sure how jumping would help."

" _We'd be together, silly. Here. Then this really would be heaven."_

God damn his smooth talking.

" _So what are you waiting for?"_

I want to see him again, I really do. But if he loved me, wouldn't he wait until my time was up? That's what the doctor told me to remember. He has eternity on his hands, why should I rush things?

I text Dee again.

Think I'm losing my mind.

My hand is shaking so much that I almost drop the phone.

Nothing makes sense. Met the coolest man on the planet. Problem is he may also be the weirdest. Wish we could talk. Get back soon as the anaesthetic wears off. Hope the op went well. xx

I press send and toss the phone onto the bed.

Someone knocks on the door.

I'm not answering. Not in this state.

"Natalie?" It's Lucy. I stay as still as I can.

"I know you're there, I saw you come in."

I still don't move.

"You didn't look right. Is everything okay?"

There's concern in her voice. She actually cares. Thank goodness there's someone in this city who does. "Hang on a minute. I'm just drying my hands." I pick up a towel and go over to the door.

Lucy's fist, about to knock again, almost hits my face when I open up.

"Thanks." She pushes past me, sits on the bed and crosses her sparrow legs. "We're about to go out for dinner. Fancy coming?"

I think of the date I ought to be having. If things had been different, I'd be sitting down to a plate of crayfish right now. "Where are you of going?" I sit next to her and pretend to be interested.

"Janet wants to try the vegetarian restaurant on the other side of the river."

"I didn't know there were any vegetarians in Florence."

"Janet and Elsie make at least two."

If ever anyone needed to get a slab of meat into them to put flesh on their bones, it's that pair. And it wouldn't do Lucy any harm either, come to think of it.

"I'm not sure I can face eating." It's the truth. My appetite has disappeared again. "The afternoon didn't go the way I hoped it might."

"Let me guess. He didn't show." Her shrug tells me she told me so.

I wish he hadn't. Things wouldn't be such a jumble if he had stayed away.

"No." I can't tell her about the shootings at the station. She'll just go on about Post Traumatic Stress and won't leave my side for the rest of the evening.

"Don't let it get to you. It was just a brief encounter. What you need is to get your line back in the water as quickly as you can. See if you can't hook another guy to take your mind off things."

I don't want a man ever again. All I want is to be with Dee and her horses riding through the woods. "I need a quiet night to pull myself together."

Lucy reaches over and takes my hand. Her kindness takes me by surprise. She may be the wrong person, but the gesture breaks through my defences. I tense my core to keep my emotions inside, but my resolve breaks. Tears warm my eyes and I burst into sobs.

My new friend pulls me close. She takes my head and rests it on her shoulder. Strokes my hair and rocks me gently as my feelings pour out. I picture the waiter running over with the cardigan. Hear the gunfire at the station. The dead man's face flashes into view. It's as though I'm trapped in a nightmare. All I want is for someone to shake me hard and wake me up.

"That's better," Lucy says. She lets me go and smiles. "How about you get some rest. If your strength returns you can join us at the cinema later." She stands and turns down the corner of the sheets on the bed. I get under the covers without thinking. Slide over the mattress and curl my legs to my chest. Lucy pulls the blankets over me and tucks them under my chin. "Get in touch if you're interested."

I nod.

"I should be going." She pats my feet. "They're all waiting in the lobby. I'll maybe see you later."

I close my eyes. Hear her pad across the carpet and close the door. It was nice of her to come along. And she might be right about the movie. I could have a good time. Forty winks and I'll be good to go.

Everything is safe again. I curl up tight and wait for sleep to arrive.

Another knock on the door gives me a start. I leap out of bed. What can Lucy have forgotten? I scan the room for anything that might be hers. There's nothing.

I open the door. Arturo stands where Lucy should be, a bunch of yellow roses in his hand.

"Get away from me you creep." I push the door hard. It doesn't close on account of his foot being between it and the frame.

"I need to talk."

I shove with all my might. His boot stays where it is.

"Please." His voice carries a thousand years of persuasion. Something inside me melts.

I step back in surrender.

He walks in and tells me thanks.

Looking up, I see all the reasons I was drawn to him in the first place. He's a European prince out of a book of fairy-tales. I want to kiss him and kill him all at once. The urge to hurt him wins. My hand flies his way, palm open and ready to strike.

He lifts the flowers to defend himself. My skin collides with thorns.

"Ouch!" I jump in the air and suck blood from the wound.

Arturo throws his head back and bursts into laughter. His arms open wide. I walk forwards and allow him to wrap me up. His heart beats quick and even like a metronome at a barn dance. I want to stay there. Keep the moment pure. Prevent him from opening his mouth and spoiling things.

He seems to understand. Doesn't say a word.

I clutch at his shirt like I might fall if I let go. "How did you know where to find me?"

"It's a long story." He eases away. Slips the bag from his shoulder, opens it and takes out a bottle of red wine and two glasses. Sets them down on my desk. "We'll need something to help us along."

He unscrews the top and pours. The wine looks deep and dark. He hands me mine and I sample it. It's soft and warm. Like drinking plush velvet.

"You like?"

"It's marvellous." I sip more. Enjoy the glow it gives my insides. If this doesn't calm me down, nothing will. "But it will take more than a drink and a bit of flirting to win me over."

"Who says I want to do that?"

"The way you look at me it's obvious."

"Then I guess I have a lot of explaining to do."

"You better believe it Mister."

"I'm not sure where to begin."

"How about drawing a waiter just before he was mown down by a car? Or those killings on the railway station?"

He gestures for me to take a seat on the bed. I make myself comfortable and wait for him to start.

"Are you religious Natalie?"

"You're kidding, right? This is the twenty-first century."

"Is that supposed to make a difference?"

"Of course."

"So you don't believe in God."

"Uh-uh." I shake my head in case he isn't getting the message.

"In that case, you've got it all wrong."

Next he'll be announcing that he's a Jehovah's Witness. I half expect him to produce a copy of _The_ _Watchtower_ and ask me to memorise it.

He puts his drink down on the table and leans forward. His brown eyes are as delicious as the wine. I could lose myself inside them for hours. "God. The Devil. They're as real as you and I. They're everywhere, yet we're all too busy to notice."

If his expression wasn't so blank, I'd think he was messing about. "And I suppose we all end up in heaven and hell just like it says in the bible."

"Not just the bible. There's something similar in all the major texts."

I give him my best mocking laugh. "You'll have to forgive me for not reading them cover to cover." Or even many of the pages. My parents made certain of that.

"I leave the forgiveness side of things to those with the power to offer it."

Is he for real? "Forget I said anything."

He scratches his head. Looks to the ceiling. Perhaps he's waiting for divine intervention.

"People die. It happens. And most transitions are straightforward."

"Transitions?"

"From this world to the next." The guy's nuts. "For others it's not the same." He clears his throat. "There's a trauma of some kind. A disaster or a moment of madness."

I know all about difficult situations. Remember holding onto Rory as life slipped away. Now Arturo has my attention. I'm tuned in to him like a phone to Wi-Fi.

"Those souls need a little help in their passing. A gateway to shift through. That's where I come in."

"You're opening the door for them?"

"That's pretty much it."

"So when you were drawing the waiter the other night, you were doing him a favour."

"Absolutely."

"And if you'd not managed to finish your drawing on time?"

His lips straighten. "That's not so good. The alternative is a life in Limbo. Imagine being able to see all the good things of the world and never being able to experience any of them."

That's how my life has been since Rory. I don't tell him that. "How terrible."

"You can't rest or switch off and the only communication you have is with other tortured souls. I wouldn't wish that upon my worst enemy."

I can think of a few people I'd send that way. Rory's killer for a start.

Arturo taps me on the knee. "Are you all right?"

"Of course." More wine. It soothes out a few of the creases. Then the image of the young girl at the station flashes through my mind and I tense right up again.

"So what happens when someone like me comes along and gets in the way?"

"It's never happened before."

His smile is disarming. I guess he's got over me ruining his work. "Tell me, how does one get a job like that? It's not one I've seen advertised."

"They found me."

"Really?"

"On account of my talent."

His confidence should wind me up. It doesn't. "Which one?"

"My drawing skills."

"And what's the going rate for a man of your calibre?"

"It might not be as high as you imagine." Would it be too much to ask for me to fall for a rich man? "No money changes hands. I have to earn my crust like everyone else."

"Oh?"

"I get paid with time. As long as I'm performing, I stay the way you see me right now."

Drop dead gorgeous I suppose he means. "God must be a very wise old bird."

It's hard to tell with his tan, but I think he's blushing.

"You don't know the half of it."

"But the half I understand is that you're immortal."

"Almost."

"You either are or you're not."

"Like I said, it depends on my performance."

"Which shouldn't be a problem given how good you are."

"I'm the best."

"And I suppose you've got some special powers to keep life interesting."

"There might be a few."

"Like being able to find my name out when I haven't told you?"

"That's one."

"And remaining invisible to everyone while you work."

"Correct."

"Then tell me why, when you drew the waiter, I could see you and talk to you just like you're normal?"

He gets up. Brings the bottle over to the bed. Tops up the glasses and sits down. "It's why you interest me so. There must be something special about you."

"There really isn't."

"I think there is." He's not flirting now. His expression is grave. "You've been close to a death. I can sense it. Lost someone and been damaged. Whatever it was, it is yet to be resolved."

I put my glass down on the bedside table. Pull my legs up to my chest and rest my chin on my knees.

"It's not important what happened. What matters is that you pull yourself back together."

He sounds like my mother and the doctors at the hospital. "I have medication to help with that."

"Pills are good. Time is better. Love is the best." He stares deep into my eyes. The connection is strong. It's as if the rest of the world no longer exists.

He touches my leg. His fingers run up the back of my calf and stop behind my knee. The tingles spread through me like electricity. My heart races. His hand moves up to mine and he strokes my fingers.

As he leans in, he looks right inside me. I sense him finding out everything I've ever done or imagined. I move closer. Put my lips on his.

His mouth is soft and warm. It carries the flavour of the wine. Every nerve ending I have finds peace. Our tongues meet. They say hello like old friends who know exactly what to do.

I touch his face. Trace the line of his jaw.

He nibbles at my neck. The buzz electrifies my toes and my temperature shoots off the scale. Happiness flows through my veins like rivers of molten gold.

" _What are you doing?"_ Rory's question breaks the spell. His voice is stern and cold. My blood turns to ice.

I put my hands on Arturo's chest and push him away. Check out the room, half expecting to see Rory lurking. The room is quiet and empty.

"What's the matter?" Arturo sounds wounded. Like I've insulted his prowess.

Someone pounds at the door. Their timing is perfect. Maybe Arturo's right about there being a god.

I jump up to answer.

Arturo grabs my arm. Pulls me back. "They'll go away," he whispers in my ear. "Just wait."

The pounding continues. "Arturo." The voice outside is loud. "Open up, it's me."

Arturo closes his eyes. His disappointment is palpable. I squeeze his hand and try to smile. "We've got plenty of time."

He gets up and opens the door. Valentino pushes his way in. His suede jacket is perfect.

The men shake hands. Valentino comes my way. Kisses both my cheeks. Makes me feel like part of the team.

"Another job?"

Valentino reaches into his bag. Pulls out two brown envelopes. "I wouldn't have bothered you if it wasn't urgent."

Arturo takes them over to the desk. Empties the contents of the first. "An old man across town at two o'clock in the morning?" He frowns at his friend. "Hardly worth rushing for."

"Must be the other one."

Arturo opens it slowly. Pulls out a photograph and a sheet of paper. His eyes widen and he goes pale.

"What is it?" Valentino looks worried. Goes over to check out the information.

Arturo turns the photograph my way.

I'm looking at a black and white picture of myself, face down on the pavement outside the lobby of the hotel. The same dress I'm wearing right now. There's a thump in my chest like my heart is trying to beat its way through my ribcage. My strength disappears and I grab hold of the back of the chair.

"How long have you got?" Valentino asks the question and puts his arm around my shoulder.

Arturo checks his watch. "Twenty minutes." He rubs his goatee hard.

"Not long." Valentino. "What are we going to do?"

He goes to the window, opens it up and stares down. Turns my way. "You asked about what happens when someone gets in the way of my work. Now we have the answer." My heart fills with panic. "It looks like I'm about to fail to deliver for the second time in one day."

I throw my arms around him and kiss his cheek.

" _He has to do it."_ Rory is angry. _"Make him draw the picture. It will bring us back together."_

"I'm not ready," I tell him. "Leave me alone.

Arturo and Valentino exchange a look of concern. "Get your things." Arturo takes control. "We're leaving."

" _Don't let him take you."_ Rory is insistent. _"Just jump. There's no need to be afraid. Come to me now."_

I get up and take a step towards the window. It's as though I can no longer control my movements.

Arturo blocks the way. I push against his arm and he resists. Slaps my face. I wake with a start. Stare at my new friend. Wait for him to help.

He relaxes his grip. Closes the shutters. Picks up his bag and ties up his hair. "You can't stay here. They'll come to find out what happened as soon as the time's up."

"The Duomo?" Valentino asks.

"It's the only option." Arturo kisses me on the forehead. His lips make everything all right. "Pack your suitcase. Valentino will take you. Do everything he says. I'll be there as soon as I can." He picks up his bag. Checks the contents, closes it and says goodbye.

The idea of being separated from him fills me with panic. I run over and throw my arms around his neck, scared of what I might do if I'm left alone.

"I need to start drawing. That way, I'll have something to show the boss when she shows. Trust me."

"I do." Completely. "See you soon." He leaves the room, goes to the lift and presses the button.

I grab my case. Throw in everything I've got and smooth out the bed.

Valentino checks the drawers to make sure nothing's left. He picks up the bottle of wine. Drinks what's left and fills it from the tap. Picks up one of the roses and snaps the stem where it's broken. Pops it into the water and tidies the mess. "You ready?" he asks.

"As I'll ever be." I pick up the case, double check I've got my wallet and passport and follow my new friend towards the next chapter of my life.

# Episode Four

My joints ache after a night of restless sleep. The bed here might be fit for a monk doing penance, but not for an English girl with a nervous disposition. I rub myself down and do my stretches. Carry the paraffin lamp to the sink and hang it onto the hook. I check myself out in the tiny cracked mirror on the wall. The reflection splits my face into two. I stare at my other selves for a while. Wait to see if they have anything to say. Both remain silent.

I clean my teeth, brush my hair and make myself as presentable as I can. I wish Arturo were here. Being beside the crypt is unnerving. Far too close to death for my liking. The sooner I get outside, the better.

I step into a corridor. Use the light on my phone to see where I'm going. Wander up the uneven stone stairs, push through the small door and enter the church.

The gothic arches stand simple and plain. After I've been to the shops, I'm going to spend a while here and sketch. See if I can't capture the perfection of the place. A few hours concentrating on nothing but my art is just what I need. My therapist would be proud of me for thinking this way.

Under the dome the early-bird tourists huddle together. I don't feel like being near people, so I walk the other away. I almost bump into Dante. He stands in the middle of a painting and stares off into the distance. Behind him are the circles of Purgatory. To his left a procession of sinners descending to hell. There's something haunting about the work. It's as if it's trying to tell me something.

Goosebumps break out on my arms. For the first time in years I want to pray. I slide into the nearest pew and kneel on the foot rest. Weave my fingers together and wait for the words to come.

"Let me be good, Lord." It sounds about right. "Be kind to Rory. Tell him I'm sorry. That I can't be there until the time is right." God will be able to explain things to him better than I can. "Keep me safe and take care of Arturo. He has a lot of love to give. Don't be too hard on him. And while I'm here, Bless Mum and help Dee make a full recovery." I stand, stare up at the angels and hope they're listening.

I leave the seats and head to the door. Stop by a shrine at the side. Take a Euro from my purse and drop the coin into an old metal box. Choose a candle, light it and place it in the candelabra with the others. Maybe it will bring me luck. Something tells me I'm going to need it.

I walk through the exit and check that everything is normal. The sky is blue. There's a gentle buzz of traffic in the distance. People mill around the square like they haven't a care in the world. Most importantly, there's not a dwarf in sight.

I check my watch. Make a note of the time. Ten minutes to ten. According to Arturo, I shouldn't be away from the sanctuary of the church for more than half an hour. That shouldn't be a problem.

I scan the outside world one more time. The coast is definitely clear. I hurry out and walk with purpose in the direction of the shops.

The heat lifts my spirits immediately and my pace slows.

The market looks tempting. A browse surely can't do any harm - I am on holiday, after all.

The jewellery stall pulls me towards it like a magnet. A young woman with olive skin and jet black hair fiddles with a silver bracelet and a pair of pliers. She looks up as I approach, smiles and returns to work. I go straight for the earrings. Turn the carousel and pick out a pair with orange beads with red stripes. I hold them up to the light. They shine like miniature suns. I have to have them. Pass over ten Euros and tell the lady to keep the change. I open my bag and drop in my new gift to myself.

"Natalie Swift." The deep voice in my ear is accompanied by a firm hand gripping my shoulder. It's like an exercise in my self-defence classes. Instinctively, I curl my left hand into a fist and prepare to swing. "You're not an easy woman to find."

I realise straight away that the man behind me hasn't come from the dark side. Recognise the tones of Inspector Red of the Florence police.

Green appears from the side. Same suit and tie as when we met and this time freshly shaved. He looks like a boxer escaped from a comic book. "We checked your hotel. You're booked for another four nights and yet the only trace of you was a yellow rose."

"You must realise how suspicious that seems." Red. He comes into view, keeping a hold of my arm all while. His face is grey with stubble and he looks like he hasn't slept.

"What are you talking about?"

"We heard all about it. Your outburst at the station yesterday afternoon."

"Plenty of people saw you. We checked it out with the CCTV. Odd that we were the ones sent to the scene, don't you think? Seeing as we were the team assigned to investigate the hit-and-run you were involved with."

"I don't..." Confusion takes over and stops me finishing the sentence. "It's not..." Surely they can tell from the surprise on my face that I have nothing to do with any of this.

"She's lost for words," Red says.

"How convenient." Green.

"Not that it matters. When we get you down to the station, young lady, I'm sure you'll have plenty to say."

The station? A flock of birds takes off inside me. Their wings beat hard against the walls of my stomach. The only thing I'm sure of is that their cells aren't in the Duomo. Which means the only way I can stay safe is to get away.

If I can take them by surprise, I might be able to give them the slip.

I stamp my heel into Red's toe as hard as I can. Swing my fist into Green's chin. Raise my knee and plant it between Green's legs.

"Oomph," he says as his breath escapes him. I shake my arm, but Red still has a hold. I struggle to get into my purse. Fumble through the makeup and the tissues and my new jewellery until I find what I need. I pull out the tube and point the pepper spray into his face. Press down and watch his eyes screw tight and his mouth contort into a twist of pain.

The grip loosens. I wriggle free. Set off running towards the church. The air rushes past my ears and I sidestep a couple checking out a menu board. I'm about to accelerate away when I'm suddenly thrown to the floor by a flying detective.

My head crashes into the ground and my elbows leave skin on the pavement. I think my knee's twisted. The world goes quiet. Green steps in, a raccoon mask of inflammation across his face, and slaps a pair of cuffs around my wrists.

*

The cell smells of bleach and arm pits. The walls are white. There's a single bed, a chair and a desk with a Gideon bible on top. I'm tempted to have a read. Find out all about the errors of my ways. Decide against it on account of the fact that my head hurts and my hand feels twice its normal size. There's been no sign of Red or Green for the past hour and I'm beginning to wonder if they've forgotten I'm here.

If there's a plus side, I guess that there isn't a safer place in the city. There are locks everywhere and you can't get past the front desk without a badge or an arresting officer.

Not that I intend staying here for long. As soon as they let me have a call, I'll be in touch with the embassy. Get them to sort out the mess. By the time they're done, Red and Green will be wishing they'd taken up a different career.

Footsteps in the corridor interrupt the thought. They stop outside my cell. Keys jangle. A man swears under his breath. Locks click and the door opens.

In walks an officer carrying a tray. He's middle-aged and has a serious limp. He goes to the desk and puts the tray down.

"Minestrone soup, lemon tart, coffee and water."

The coffee I could probably manage.

I stand and step towards it. The officer puts his arms over his face in mock panic. "Don't hit me," he says and bursts out laughing. He gets himself under control and lifts the tin covers from the plates on the trays. There's a plastic spoon and fork next to the food.

"When can I use the phone?"

"After lunch some time."

"But I need to speak to someone."

"Tell me all about it, sugar. I'm all ears."

I pick up the plastic cutlery and throw it onto the floor. "Not you. A lawyer. To get me out of this hole."

He looks at me like I'm a naughty child. Shakes his head. "I'll speak to my superiors and see what I can arrange."

With that he turns his back on me and leaves.

As the door closes there's a flash of movement.

I hear them before I really see who they are. They cluck like excited hens. Light reflects from their scalps as they tumble and roll around my cell like clumsy acrobats. Their faces are ugly as Goya's imps.

I run to the door and pound on the metal, screaming after the policeman. "Don't leave me here." I check to see whether the three little men are really here. They are. "You have to get me out."

It's probably what everyone tells him. He doesn't return.

"There's no point." The voice is a mixture of gravel and wet cement. "In my experience, they never return."

I turn to the man in the middle of the room. He's wearing a Hawaiian shirt and three-quarter length shorts. His sunglasses are propped up on the top of his wrinkled forehead. I wish he'd put them down so I didn't have to look into his stony eyes. "Are you here to let me go?"

"In a manner of speaking, I suppose we are."

The other two burst into cackles of laughter. Their faces would turn milk sour.

The man in the shirt lifts himself onto my bed and sits back. "You two get the drawing done. Sooner we get out of here the better. I want to be back out there in the heat."

"You're in charge?" I ask.

"I'm sorry I didn't get to introduce myself properly." He holds out his small hand. There's no way I'm going to touch it. "The name's Barabbas." His teeth are sharpened to points. He drops his hand and pushes himself back to the wall. Takes a stick from his pocket and chews on it. "May I introduce Rose and Thorn."

They stare up at me. Nod. If one of them is a woman, I can't tell which. They get back to work, unpacking art materials from a bag.

Barabbas steeples his stubby fingers and rests his chin on the point. Keeps the stick in his mouth. "It won't take long. These two can knock up a picture in minutes."

It suddenly dawns on me why they're here. They've come for my soul. To take me through to the next world. And I have a feeling there won't be an angel in sight when I get there. It's what Arturo warned might happen if I strayed too far from the church.

"You can't do this." My voice is high and tight. "It's all a big mistake."

"My boss doesn't make mistakes." He reaches into his shirt pocket. Pulls out a square of paper. Unfolds it and hands it over.

There I am, collapsed on the floor. Hair fanned out like I'm floating in a pool. It's the second time in two days that I've seen a picture of my corpse, but the fact I've done it before doesn't make it any easier.

"And what exactly am I supposed to die of?" I can't see it. "Spooning myself to death? Drowning in the soup?" Talking makes me feel better. Gives me courage I didn't think I had.

"Everything's in hand." He points the chewed end of the stick at me. It smells of liquorice. "Once Rose and Thorn are done, we'll kill you and lay you out on the image. What the coroner decides is no concern of ours."

I swallow hard. Try and think things through. Wonder if there's anything I can use to defend myself. The plastic fork won't do much. My nails and feet will have to be enough. "Can I at least finish off my lunch before you take me?"

"A last request? Sure. Just make sure you don't choke on it." The trio chuckle away like I'm the entertainment for the afternoon.

"It would save you a lot of effort if I did."

"But there would be no job satisfaction." Barabbas sucks on his stick and settles down to watch.

I go to my tray. Start with the soup. It's packed with flavour, but isn't hot enough to use as a weapon. Same with the coffee - tasty but useless. Unless...

Rose and Thorn work quickly. The outline is done and they sketch the detail of my dress. They've added an extra twenty pounds to my figure, the bastards.

They start on the face and they're good, but don't have Arturo's touch. They curl my mouth in an expression of fear. Add a glint of horror to the eyes. It doesn't look like they're intend to give me a gentle exit from this world. My stomach tightens and I want to throw up.

I think of Mum. How she'll react. Losing one daughter knocked her off the rails for years. Losing another might do for her altogether. I have to get out of here in one piece, if only for her sake.

The artists put their pastels back into their boxes. They stand back and admire their work. The points of their teeth ruin their smiles.

I pick up the cup and throw the coffee over their art. Do the same with the soup. Fall to the floor and rub at the mess with my fingers until the picture is ruined.

Rose and Thorn watch on with their mouths open.

Barabbas isn't so slow off the mark. He's up on the bed and ready to leap in my direction.

I lift my leg, pull off my sandal and swing at his head for all I'm worth. The sole slaps against his skull. For the first time in my life, I wish I was more of a girly girl. A stiletto point would have done a lot more damage than this rubber. He falls off the bed and hits the floor hard. Rolls over in a ball and gets to his feet.

Rose and Thorn come to life again. They rush me, snarling like wolves in battle. I kick hard at one of them. Catch him on the bridge of the nose. Send a spray of blood across the white wall. The tiny red dots remind me of Seurat's sunsets.

The other butts me in the chest and knocks me into the table. The tray clatters to the floor and I land on the lemon tart. The bowl breaks into pieces. I pick up the biggest and point it in front of me. Any one of these little men comes near I'll slice them to ribbons with my improvised blade.

Barabbas disappears behind me. I swing at nothing. He grabs my hair. Pulls hard. The roots strain against my scalp. I try to grab my opponent, but he's stronger than he looks. My head snaps back and hits the corner of the desk. The weapon flies from my grip.

His team-mates pounce. One's on my chest, the other has my legs. My shin burns as the teeth sink in.

My scream dies. It's followed by a new sound. The rattle of keys. The door opens. In walk Red and Green. Puzzled looks spread over their faces.

Red scratches his ear. "Was the soup not to your liking?" The rash around his eyes looks like a carnival disguise.

Food is scattered on the floor among broken crockery. My pillow and sheet hang from the bed. One of my shoes is propped up against the far wall. My hands are shaking, my face flushed. I imagine my hair isn't at its best.

The picture, however, has completely disappeared.

My attackers have scuttled off into the corner. Barabbas stands on the shoulders of the others. Together they form a pyramid of evil. They point fingers my way and make rasping noises. Red and Green don't see any of it.

Green offers me his hand. I take it and he pulls me to my feet. "A young man came into the station earlier. A nice guy. Looks like he was born in the wrong decade."

"He knew you were here. Insisted we called the embassy and enquired about you."

"We ignored him, of course." Red takes a handkerchief from his pocket and dabs at his watering eyes. "Until we heard that our colleagues have caught the killer from the incident at the station." He folds the hanky and puts it away. "Why didn't you tell us who your father is?"

I'm still catching my breath. Don't answer.

"You could have saved all of us a lot of bother."

The door opens once more. In comes the man who served my lunch. He looks at the mess. Shakes his head. "I'll get a mop."

The demons break formation. Rose and Thorn sprint towards the exit and vanish. Barabbas takes his time. Brushes down his shirt. Hisses and spits in my direction and disappears with the policeman.

"Miss Swift?"

The words of the detective capture my attention.

"Would it have made any difference to the way you treated me?" I ask. "You didn't give me a chance to speak if I remember correctly."

Red rubs his eyes. "I think it was the other way around."

"But let's not worry about such things." Green's voice is calm. It lacks its usual power. "We're prepared to overlook your assault, as long as you can forgive our hasty action."

It sounds fair. I nod.

"And for the duration of your stay in our city, we'll be at your disposal. If anything untoward happens, you'll have out undivided attention." Red hands over a card. It has a name and a phone number. "That works twenty-four hours a day. Use it if you need."

"Now, if you'd like to follow us, we'll arrange some transport for you to get you home."

I don't like the idea. How on earth will I explain to them that I can't return to the hotel. "Is Valentino still around?"

"The man with the scooter? He was in reception when we came down."

"Then I'll take a lift with him."

The twins look at each other and back at me. "As you wish."

They walk out of the cell and I follow.

It doesn't take long to get to the front of house. Red raises the counter and I walk through. None of us say goodbye.

Valentino's leaning on the wall. He sees me and breaks out into a grin. I run over and hug him like he's an old friend. He takes my hand and leads me out into the street. We put on helmets and mount the scooter.

"Home James," I tell him.

His eyebrows rise like he has no idea what I'm talking about.

The throttle revs. A gap appears in the traffic. As we pull away my insides crumble into dust as I wonder if I'll ever get to see my family and friends ever again.

# Episode Five

Rory slots an old penny into the fortune-telling machine on the pier. I hold his hand tight and rest my head on his shoulder. The gypsy lady flashes into life and her arrow spins. It stops in the three o'clock position, directly between two segments: _'True Love'_ and _'Mind Your Step'_.

He taps the glass to help the gypsy make up her mind. The arrow doesn't budge. A pink card spits from the chrome. I pull it out and hand it over.

"Watch out for tall dark men." He chuckles. Crunches it up and throws it towards the litter bin in the corner. Misses. I pick it up and squirrel it away into my pocket, a souvenir of our day out. A little something to put into my box of sentimental objects. I'll get it out to brighten the dark winter nights when we're old.

Rory goes over to the laughing policeman and inserts his last coin. The air fills with sinister guffaws as the puppet in the middle of the box gyrates. The fixed grin plastered across the face creeps me out. I drown in a pool of childhood memories. The sound swirls in my ears and makes me turn away. I grab Rory by the arm and turn him towards the exit. "Let's walk."

We wander back towards land. I look down between the boards and watch the sea splash and foam. The winter air is cold and clean. The pressure of revision and the burden of my parents' expectations seem a million miles away.

He stops, takes out his phone and holds it up. We put our heads together and he clicks. Shows me the picture to get my approval.

My skin is pale. The beanie is off centre and my hair is blowing across my face. He's gorgeous as usual. His thick curly hair and beard give him the appearance of super intelligence and his smile is big enough for the both of us. I admire his perfect cheekbones for a moment and then nod my approval.

He clicks the screen and shares it with his Instagram buddies. Returns the phone to his pocket and steps away. "Last one to the end buys milkshakes." He's already off, sprinting to the finish line. Rory's such a boy sometimes. I guess that's one of the reasons I love him so.

A gust of wind wraps itself around me. Carries me off to the left. I bang my shin on the corner of a bench. Cry out in pain. Rory doesn't hear. He's too busy winning to notice anything. I rub my leg and limp on, cross with his little game. And it's now, just like every other time, I realise I've been here before.

Everything is instantly familiar. The tower pointing to the sky. Gulls hanging in the air like children's kites. The sand stretching off into the distance. The knowledge that something is about to go horribly wrong and that there's nothing I can do to change it.

I run faster. Catch up with Rory who's already teasing me with his victory. I don't stop. Carry on until my feet are back on the promenade.

A tram pulls in at the stop. An old couple disembark. The wind catches the man's cap and he has to grab it to keep it on his head. I run over the track, cross the road and keep going until my lungs refuse to carry on.

I wait for Rory. We wander off the main drag and find our cafe. It's where we came the first time and we've popped in on every visit since.

I order two chocolate shakes and we sit on the tall stools in the window bay. We wait in silence until our drinks arrive.

"It's good to be back," he says after sucking on his straw.

He's right. I forgive him for beating me in the race and give his hand a squeeze. "Isn't it?" A feeling of doubt sprouts somewhere in my stomach. I know he will say something I don't want to hear, I just can't remember what it is.

"Listen." Never a good opening to a conversation. "I've been thinking." Even worse. "About us renting a flat together when we go away."

It's the elephant in the room. Has been since I brought it up on Christmas Eve. It has huge ears and sharp tusks. "And?"

"I did some research. The halls of residence are really rather splendid. And the prices compare more than favourably with the rental properties on the market."

Nothing I didn't know already. "Go on."

"They provide meals and everything. Just think about it. No tedious cooking or washing up. No dull trips to the supermarket. Nothing but fun."

I take a drink. It's not a proper shake, just a glass of milk with sugary powder thrown in. Still, it tastes just perfect. I shut my eyes and pretend none of this is happening. Remember that it's all a dream. That if I can wake myself up, it will all be over. I concentrate hard. Urge my sleeping body to stir. Nothing doing. "Apart from the studying." The script, it seems, has to remain exactly the same.

"Of course. Fun and studying. You soak up your art history while I discover new stars in the universe and we'll meet up in the pub to compare notes."

"Sounds great." It really does, only that's not what moving in together was about. It was more to do with commitment. "But if we lived in the same house, we'd share everything."

He takes another drink. Looks right into my eyes. His contact lenses circle those beautiful blue irises like rings around crystal planets. "I was talking to my dad about it and he thinks it would be better if we had a little space."

"I'm not having a relationship with your father, Rory. It's what you think that matters."

He looks away. Breathes deep. "I happen to agree with him."

"About having our own space?"

A nod.

"So I'm cramping your style. Is that it?"

"That's not what I mean."

"Then tell me."

I want to throw my milkshake into his face. Show him how important this is. I fold my arms instead and wait for him to respond.

"You know you mean the whole world to me, Nat." That's what he always says. "But we have to make sure we're living in reality. We're only eighteen and our whole lives stretch ahead of us. Who knows what will happen when we leave home?"

I have a feeling I do, but keep it to myself.

"We'll get a first class education and take the next step when the time comes."

I float away from the drama. Sense I'm on the outside for a moment, like I've just changed places in the scene. I'm watching myself and Rory as they spend their final hour together. I shake my head at the couple before me. They seem so young. So naive. I try and cry out. Warn Rory that there are no next steps if he doesn't take a different route. "Stay in the cafe where it's warm and safe," I want to say. "Buy a couple of their burgers." The cheapest in town according to the hand-written sign

Just like the other times, no sound leaves my mouth. All I can do is watch them move towards their destiny. If only I could turn away.

"But things might not work out the way you imagine." I'm back in the scene and listening to Rory explain his logic. "People change, Nat. We'll change. It's just what happens."

"I know." My heart is racing. "Only if we stay close, we'll grow together instead of apart."

"I love your optimism, Nat. I really do." He reaches over. Strokes my cheek so gently it's like his fingers are made of rose petals.

"So we can start looking for a place together?"

His hand returns to his lap. "That's not what I meant and you know it."

I don't.

"Let's just give it a week or two." Typical Rory. Trying to avoid conflict to keep everything cool. I'm not sure if all boys are like this, or just the scientists. "By then, you might see the sense in what I'm saying."

He might be able to stay calm. I can't. Thoughts are popping off inside my head like explosions at a firework factory.

Amidst the noise and chaos, I try and puzzle it out. Does he think we might break up? Is he hoping to cut out a new life and meet someone else when we go? Is he merely paving the way to dumping me before we leave? If I lose weight, would it stop all of his nonsense?

"Drink up," he tells me. "Why don't we drive over to the pleasure beach? A trip down the Ice Blast will take your mind away from everything."

He's being so bloody reasonable I hate him.

"Go to hell Rory Baines." I jump down from my stool. Grab my bag, pull my hat to my eyes and wrap my scarf around my neck. Before he can stop me, I'm running down the stairs to the exit. The proprietor, comb-over slicked to his scalp, watches me open-mouthed as I try to slam the door. Shakes his head as if passing judgement on my entire generation and gets back to watching whatever crap the TV above his head is showing.

My eyes are hot. Tears pour down my face. My chest heaves to the rhythm of my sobs. Unsure of where to go, I head towards the sea. Just like always, I pass the mother shouting at her young lad and then a gang of teenagers smoking outside the pub. I step to the side to avoid the sleeping bag of the homeless guy in the doorway and suck up a whiff of stale urine. Cross the road. Notice a woman crouched low and drawing on the pavement. I register the array of colours laid out in the box by her feet and keep on running.

And the world freezes.

Something's wrong.

This game isn't one we normally play.

So far, every detail has been the same. The pier and the argument and me storming off like a spoilt brat.

Until now.

I need to retrace my journey. A few seconds should do the trick. Except my body won't move. All I can do is spin my head. It does a 360 swivel like an owl. Takes in everything. And I realise what's different.

The pavement artist.

Her blond hair covers her face as she works. She's dressed for the summer even though it's Baltic. Flip flop sandals and a thin dress. Her fingers are busy, shading in her art. I concentrate. Focus in on her drawing. See it immediately. Recognise Rory's jacket and beautiful hair. Remember the flecks of red on his face and hands. Know the reason that this woman is here. Realise there's something I can do. Obliterate her sketch and I can change the course of history. Rory and I will be able to get to settle our argument. I know I can grind him down if I try hard. If I can't, I might grow to understand his point about us being too young. The only way to find out is to destroy the picture on the floor.

Such a simple thing to do, I can't possibly mess up. Yet, when I try to move my legs, they weigh too much. I strain my muscles. The fibres pull for all they're worth and still nothing. It's the same with my arms. And now they work against me. Instead of running over to the picture, I'm back on my path towards the beach. I wish I had eyes in the back of my head.

Rory's voice snaps me from the panic. At last I can control my body. I turn his way. See him running towards me with his arms outstretched.

A sudden pop jerks me to attention. The crack echoes around the street. Rory spins on his heels. His arms rise to his neck as he pirouettes. It's the least graceful performance he's ever given. I wait for him to find his balance. Instead he falls to the floor. Hits it hard.

I worry he might be hurt. Sprint to face him. Cross paths with a tall dark man in a tangerine shirt who isn't looking where he is going. We collide and he knocks me to the side. I manage to keep my feet. Turn to watch the stranger run down the alley. He carries a gun and a leather holdall. Behind him follows another guy, half the size and age of the first.

"Bloody hell, Harry," the smaller one shouts. "What'd you do that for?"

Harry looks back. "Didn't mean to." He keeps running. He's already out of breath. "It just went off in my hand."

I try to fix his features into my mind. I know it will be important one day. Problem is my canvas remains blank and his face has melted to nothing.

I turn back to Rory. His limbs twitch as if he wants to get up.

The bald cafe owner comes to investigate.

"Call an ambulance." My voice is a scream. The man looks shocked at my tone. "Now!" He wipes his hands on his apron and scuttles back through the door.

A river of red pours from Rory's throat. He grips at his wound. Wraps his fingers round so tightly he's practically strangling himself. The flow of blood stops and then resumes as tiny streams.

I fall to my knees and pull Rory's head to my lap. Unravel my scarf and wind it around his neck as quickly as I can.

He looks up. He's trying to tell me something. Whatever it is, I can't make it out through the curtain of tears that blurs my sight.

I stroke his hair. Rock him to give him comfort. Tell him it will be OK. That the medics will arrive at any moment. Try to make out the words his mouth is struggling to form. His lips seem blue as they twist into shapes I don't understand.

I wipe my eyes. Focus on deciphering his dying wish. I'm still trying to work it out as he shivers and his eyes close.

"Stay with me," I tell him. "They won't be long."

A judder of his spine and I realise that they're already too late.

I press a kiss to his forehead. Push his fringe back into place. Shake my head at the sky and promise I'll do anything to get one more chance to speak to him again. Whatever it takes.

The gods don't listen. I shut my eyes and wish I were dead instead.

The medics have to prize my grip open to get me off. One of them puts her arm around me. Tells me nice things in a soothing voice. Guides me away from the corpse of my lover.

I resist. Want to get back to Rory. To stay with him forever.

A loud banging rocks my dream. It's another thing I don't recall.

"Natalie." The voice is strained. Italian. Desperate. "Please."

These words don't belong in my sleep. I want them to go away. To leave me to my memories and my life.

I pull out of the grip of the lady by my side. Run back to Rory who is lying flat with his arms by his side. The paramedic shakes his head. I throw myself onto my lover's body and grab hold. I listen for signs of life. Wait for a flutter against his ribs or the rise and fall of his chest. There's nothing.

My hair soaks up the warm stickiness of blood which glues us together like we were always meant to be. I press until I'm as close as I can get.

Another bang interrupts the scene. It's not supposed to be here. I screw my eyes tight and stay exactly where I am, a cold winter's afternoon in the north of England. It seems to work. The banging stops.

Replacing it is the scratching of nails against wood, like a rodent trying to dig its way into my mind. I press my fingers into my ears to keep it at bay.

"Help me."

Has the heat of my body and the depth of my hope stirred Rory back to life? I look into his face. It's the same pale mask he was wearing when I joined him. He's as still as a Rodin study in stone. I think of _The Kiss_. Start to cry. Wonder what is to become of me now I've been separated from my other half.

"Please."

The voice is weaker still. And it's not coming from my dream.

My choice is clear. To cling to Rory while the medics go through formalities or to come to my senses and help the living.

I drag myself from sleep. Force my eyes open. Wonder if I've made the right choice.

The lamp projects an orange glow onto the stone wall of the crypt. A chill draught licks at my toes. I pull my feet under the woollen blanket and curl into a ball.

The scratching resumes. It's so faint I can't help picture a rat scrabbling away. The thought of its long tail carrying filth into my room makes me shudder. I want to be home. Back in Preston with my goose-feather quilt and freshly laundered sheets. Wish it was my mother at the door bringing me a steaming cup of tea.

"Nat." I recognise Arturo's voice. "I'm hurt." His words land in my heart like tiny flakes of snow. As they melt, they spur me into action. I throw back the blanket and step onto the floor. The stone is cold and uneven. Next time I come to Italy, I'll pack socks. I run to the door and freeze.

Doubt descends upon me like a shroud. What if it's a trick? If it's those beastly little men from the police station come to claim my soul? My pulse quickens and my skin pulls tight against my frame.

"That you Arturo?"

There's no answer.

"Are you there?"

Still no reply.

"Jesus!" My second prayer of the week. I work the lock. Clench my fist and prepare to swing. Pull the handle and open the door.

My body stiffens as I stare into the darkness. I wait for my eyes to adjust. Find nothing that wasn't there before. Just the iron candle holders and the foundation walls of the church. It's like one of those Mischief Night pranks the boys down my road used to pull. Knock-a-door-run, as if we didn't know who the footsteps fading into the distance belonged to.

All my muscles relax at once. I'm surprised I don't fall over. Lean into the frame to keep myself straight.

Something brushes against my ankle. I think of those rats and their tails. Pull my leg back and prepare to slam the door.

I look down.

Slumped against the wooden frame is a human form.

I run back into my room. Unhook the lamp and take it over.

Arturo's face is broken. His lip swollen and cut. The landscape of his forehead has changed. A bump emerges from his skull like the volcano on Stromboli. His hair is untidy and blood leaks from his ear. The bridge of his nose is bruised and swollen. His lips are the colour of slate and a trail of pink saliva joins the corner of his mouth to the bottom of his chin.

A scream pours from my throat. It rips at my vocal cords until they're ready to snap. And silence.

I steady myself. Need to concentrate. Shake off the feeling I've swapped one nightmare for another. Force myself to act.

I pick up his arm. Wrap my fingers around his wrist and push into the flesh until I find what I'm after. The tiny beat of a pulse.

"Thank you," I say in case anyone's listening. I pull Arturo forward and slip my arms under his. Drag him into my room and over to the bed. Use every ounce of my strength to raise him to the mattress and let him fall. Lift his legs and lay them straight. Grab my phone to call for help.

It throbs weakly like Arturo's heart. Immediately stalls.

I try again. Same result.

Panic grips my insides.

If I don't do something, I'm about to experience a man dying in my arms for the second time in my young life.

# Episode Six

If it weren't for the tiny movements in Arturo's chest, I'd swear he was dead. His head is propped up on the pillow and his arm has fallen from the mattress so that his fingers almost touch the floor.

I concentrate on the way his hair fans over the bandage and onto the sheet. Try to capture the fine strands as I sketch. Attempt to bring life to the image to make up for the absence of it in his face. I guess I'm creating hope to banish my despair.

The doctor did his best under the circumstances. Patched up the holes and gave him an injection to bring sleep. Pressed a bottle of painkillers into my hand and left instructions for administration. He made a final effort to convince Valentino to take our friend to hospital. Failed. Said he'd return in twenty-four hours to check how things were, packed his small leather bag and left.

I've been watching ever since. Waiting for something to happen.

The door slams open behind me. I stop drawing. Lay my book down on the rug.

Valentino takes off his bag and throws it to the floor. He removes his coat and shakes it in my direction. Cold water sprays my arm and drags me to attention.

"Rain?" Either that or he's been taking showers with his clothes on.

He doesn't answer and walks to the bed, his wet trousers sticking to his legs. He holds his hands up to the lamp above Arturo and checks on his friend. "No change?"

"He's barely moved since you left."

He kicks the wall. Stares at me. "Of all the cities in Europe, you had to choose this one." Even though his eyes are the colour of obsidian onyx, they burn with heat. "This is your fault." He flaps his arms into the air like he's communicating in angry sign language. "You should never have come."

His words stab my conscience. If only I'd not been so stubborn. Stayed at home with Dee and kept my curse to myself. "I'm sorry," I tell him.

He waves my apology away. Picks up his bag and rummages inside. Takes out my phone and charger. Throws them at me.

I catch the phone. The charger bounces off the stone.

"Fully charged." He brushes his fringe to the side.

I run my fingers around the corners of the phone. Stroke the screen. Want to call Dee straight away. She'll tell me what to do. "Thanks," I say instead.

Valentino turns. Goes to the bed. Makes fists and bows his head. His shoulders drop as if in defeat.

"Don't give up." I try to sound positive. Hope my words are soothing. "The doctor will be back soon." I go to him and rest my hand on his back. He shakes it off and steps away.

"You think so?" He's crying. "Then check this out." He goes to his bag again. Pulls out a large brown envelope. I understand immediately.

"Another job?"

He holds it out and I take it. Open the flap and pull out a picture. The body of a man surrounded by tools fills the frame. His limbs are twisted and his cavernous mouth tries to scream. I shut my eyes to block him out.

Valentino grabs it back. Rips it in half and drops it to the floor. Kicks the pieces under the bed. "Now Arturo will be just like everyone else. There'll be nothing to protect him."

I don't understand. Say so.

"This job. It will be his third miss this year." He shakes his head and sorts out his fringe again. "First the girl on the station and then you." His snarling lips spit the accusation. "Now today. Three strikes and he's out." A new tear rolls down the side of his nose. "Literally." He slumps to the floor. Gathers his knees to his chest, drops his head and sobs.

Arturo is oblivious. His breathing is as soft as the beats of an owl's wings. I see peace in his face. Wonder if it might be better for him to slip away from us without understanding the pain he is putting his friend through. Shake off the thought immediately. Know that we must find a solution. First thing I need to do is to cool Valentino's Latin blood.

I lay my fingers on his forearm. This time he doesn't resist. "You've every right to be angry with me. I understand that. But we have to work together. There isn't anybody else."

He nods. Pushes himself up and wipes his face clean.

I sit by Arturo. Rest my hand on his forehead. Feel his calm soak through my skin and settle my nerves.

"It's no good." Valentino paces the room. "There's nothing we can do."

"There must be," I tell him. "There's always a way." I sound more like my mother than myself. For once I don't mind.

He scratches his head. Steps on the rug. Notices my sketches and stops. "You did this?"

"I know. And I said I was sorry. You have to get..."

"No." He picks up my pad. Holds it up to me like a lawyer presenting evidence in court. "This? You did this?"

In front of me is my study of Arturo. I don't think Valentino's impressed. I try to snatch the book from him. He pulls it away and hides it behind his back.

"I didn't have my phone and there's nothing else to do."

He examines my work. Changes the angle of the page. "It's amazing."

I swell with pride. Go dizzy. Sense I'm blushing. "You think?"

"You ever work in chalk?"

"Pastels."

"Virtually the same. Think you can draw this?" He dives under the bed. Retrieves the two halves of the photograph. Holds them together for me to check.

The old man's features are simple enough. His clothes are plain. The twists of his body would present the only difficulty. "Sure. I can do that."

"Then we can pull Arturo from the mire."

Valentino takes Arturo by the hand. "I think we might just be able to save you."

Arturo's eyes flicker. He raises his arm. "Careful," His whisper is full of crackle and pop. "Watch your back." A smile touches his lips and fades away.

*

With the wind cutting through my jacket and the rain pounding at the visor, the romance of travel by scooter disappears. We make our way up the country roads towards the misted peaks of the hills. To either side, vineyards paint lines across the landscape. The grapes, small just now, hide under the leaves to avoid the drips of the pounding weather.

We come to the town, the streets empty of people and cars as if there's been an unholy natural disaster. Valentino speeds through the square, swerving by puddles and holes as he goes.

He pulls up onto the pavement and stops. Kicks the stand down and turns the key to rest. The buzz of the engine is replaced by the steady plops of exploding rain. I take off my helmet and wait for instruction.

Valentino takes my arm. Sets off running and pulls me along behind. He studies the each of the houses as we pass. Stops at number thirty six. Takes out his notebook and steps under the overhanging honeysuckle for shelter.

"We're here." He returns the notebook to his pocket and tries the handle. The door doesn't budge. He tries again. Same result. "Damn it." His punch thuds into the wood, but doesn't change a thing.

"What now?" I'm sure he has some magic up his sleeve. Anyone who can make themselves invisible must be able to master a lock.

"Round the back."

We run again. The fat around my arse and hips takes on a life of its own. Even after barely eating since I got here, I'm still the size of a baby whale. I must remember to hate myself more when things return to normal. Do something about my weight so that when I arrive at Cambridge they'll remember me for the right reasons.

"In here." Valentino drags me into an alley and we emerge at the back of the homes. Tiny back yards filled with plants and empty tables greet us. I follow on until he stops.

A huge black cat stares at me from the branch of a tree. Its oval eyes light up and fix on mine, as if daring me to enter.

Valentino pushes at the gate. It's damp and swollen and doesn't want to budge. He puts his shoulder against the planks, shifts his balance and slams into it. This time the gate flies open. He stumbles through and almost falls to the ground. Keeps his feet and jogs to the door.

I enter and follow. The cat licks a paw and gets back to the business of staying dry.

"Come on." Valentino waves me into the house. I step inside. There's barely room for us both. "Up here."

The staircase takes us up towards the light. We enter a long room. There's a kitchen at one end and a living area at the other. In between, a table with rough cuts of bread and a knife upended in a jar of jam.

The wooden shutters are open, the window closed. We hurry on up the next flight of stairs, turn the corner and arrive on the second floor.

There are four doors around us, each of them ajar. I head for the sound of whistling to the right. Enter the room and spot the man immediately. He's working at the top of his step-ladders, stretching to the ceiling and oblivious of our intrusion.

A tool slips from his hand. "You daft oaf," he mutters to himself and totters back to the floor. He bends to pick it up and his spine cracks as he straightens. His face brushes mine. Our eyes are only inches apart and he doesn't register a thing.

I look to Valentino for explanation. "Get on with it then." He thrusts the taped photograph at me and sits on the unmade double bed.

The old man gets back to work. His whistling resumes. I recognise Puccini. Something from Turandot. He warbles like the birds might if the sun broke through the clouds. It's a melancholy tune, though the man's passion adds a hint of cheer. He stretches up to the ceiling. A tiny fart offers to play a duet. The smell of sweet onions and warm milk wafts my way.

He inserts his screwdriver into a hole where wall and ceiling meet. Sends a flurry of grit and sand to the floor. The particles land on a well-placed sheet of newspaper and spread colour over the black and white.

"It'll be done in no time." The man talks to himself. I like people who do that. "Just a bit more from here and..." He stands right on the top of the ladder. Tests it to see whether he's balanced. Pushes up and lets it take his full weight. His other foot barely touches the platform. He grunts.

"Careful," I tell him. "Don't stretch yourself too far."

He doesn't listen. Just carries on, wobbling before me and grunting as he digs into the wall.

"It's no good." Valentino. "He can't see or hear you. Remember?"

I'm not sure I can. Everything feels real and yet it's like my dreams. I walk over to the ladder. Wrap my hand around the man's calf. The muscle is soft, the shin thin and sharp.

"Listen, sir." No reaction. "You don't know who we are, but you need to pay attention. There's no need to take chances. Come down and call a professional. You'll thank me in the long run."

The man ignores me and mutters something under his breath.

"Told you," Valentino says. "We're at work. Or supposed to be."

I sit on the mattress and sink into the softness. Bend forward and cup my head in my palms. They block out the light and I stay in the darkness. Watch the memory of shapes and colours pass over my retina like ghosts.

Valentino nudges me hard. Passes me a box of pastels and looks at his watch. "Half an hour. It's not long. Especially for an amateur."

Part of me wants to take on the challenge and get it done. The rest wants to save this nice old man and let him enjoy a few more happy years on this earth.

"Arturo's life depends upon it." Valentino's voice is firm. Commanding. "Draw."

With shaking hands, I take the sections of the picture and hold them in front of me to find the exact location of the corpse. The head needs to land by the skirting board, just next to the spot where the paint has chipped away. His back foot rests in the corner and his other leg under the bed. I select a crayon and begin.

It's not as easy as I expected. The varnish on the floor is sleek and shiny. The greys of the photograph are too flat to offer depth or detail. I have to check out the man himself. The colour of his skin, a tanned brown with a sea-green hue, will be almost impossible to recreate with what I have. I pause to check my progress. All I have is a vague outline and a splinter in my hand.

"Faster girl." Valentino perches next to me on his haunches. "You'll never finish at this rate."

He's right. I need to crack on. I decide to focus on the shirt. It's a grubby white that shouldn't cause problems.

My fingers find a rhythm. Smooth and relaxed. I smudge and wipe and before I know it, the shirt is done.

Valentino gives my shoulder a squeeze. He smiles for the first time in ages. Gets up from the floor and returns to the bed.

The old man descends. Steps onto my work and looks up at the crack. "Perfect," he says and claps his hands. He wanders over to the sink in the corner and fiddles with his trousers. A stream of piss circles the porcelain and trickles down the drain. The sour odour makes me wince. He shakes himself off, lets out a sigh of contentment and puts himself in order.

Without bothering to wash his hands, he picks up a tube of filler, unscrews the cap and squirts the contents onto a board.

While he plays with the filler, I focus upon the details of his face. The scar at the side of his nose. The wrinkles fanning from his eyes. The shimmer of stubble on his chin. Now all I have to do is draw them.

My confidence has grown. The soft pastel is an extension of me. All the hours of perfecting my technique and honing my observation skills are paying off. His ear is perfect. My teachers would be proud.

The man walks my way. He doesn't bother to step around me, just goes straight through. I should feel something. The quivers of being invaded, perhaps. There's nothing.

He walks up to his job, bones and steps creaking. Resumes his operatic hum. Scoops filler onto a spatula and squishes it into the hole.

"Five minutes." Valentino chews his nails. Oh he of little faith. Trousers and sandals and we're there.

A clatter on the steps catches my attention. The man's foot slides from the bar that takes his weight.

"Jesus Christ," the man shouts. His back bends unnaturally His arms flap. The whole room wobbles in shock.

Valentino leaps up, his eyes wide.

The old man shifts his weight. Rights the wrongs of his slip. Crosses himself and whispers thanks. "No fool like an old one, eh Luca?" He giggles. Stretches up and gets back to making his repairs.

"I thought we'd failed." Valentino looks at his watch. Taps it a couple of times. Paces up in the corridor between the wardrobe and the bed.

"I can do this," I shout. I really can. Drawing against the clock is a buzz. I guess I can thank my adrenaline for that.

It's easy now. The feet are simple to recreate. The sandals bland and uniform.

"There you go." I stand. Stretch to relieve the stiffness in my neck and shoulders. Point at the drawing and invite Valentino's critical opinion.

"We'll know at any moment," he says.

"You mean we have to stay and see it happen?" That was never part of the plan. "I don't think I can."

"It's the only way we can be sure."

"We don't both need to be here. I'll meet you in the kitchen when it's over."

The old man grunts above me. "Just a little more." His voice is strained. His body is at full stretch, his fingers working filler into the far end of the crack. His shirt rides up. Reveals the saggy sack of skin of his plump belly. The ladder tilts. He adjusts his weight. This time he shifts too far.

I realise it's too late to escape. His foot kicks at the air. His body hangs, indecisive. He falls back. Plummets head first to the ground. Crashes into the wall and rolls onto my art.

A gasp escapes his lips. He lifts his cheek from the floor. Reaches out for something that isn't there. Whispers to someone I can't see. Holds his shape and then crumples. A tear appears in the corner of his eye. Grows until it bursts and slides down his nose. Leaves a dark spot where it lands.

"Looks like you did good." Valentino picks up the torn photo and the box of crayons and returns them his bag.

"Good?" The thought horrifies me. "I murder this guy and you want to congratulate me."

"You did him a favour. Now he can meet his ancestors and all the mates he's lost. Play cards or sing or whatever it is that gives him his kicks."

I hear the words, but they don't sink in. I fall to my knees next to the dying man. Stroke his hair. Try to summon some peaceful thoughts to help him through his final moments.

All I find is turmoil. The word murderer echoes around in my skull. I look down at this lovely old guy and hate myself for what I've done. Hurt swells in my chest. Pushes through my throat and onto my tongue. Pours out of my mouth as sobs and wails.

Valentino takes me in his arms. Holds me tight until my shuddering shoulders become still and my cries shrink to tiny sniffs.

I wipe my nose on my sleeve. Get up from the floor and avert my eyes from the corpse. Know there's only one thing that can settle me down. "I need a drink."

"No problem." Valentino takes my hand and walks to the door. "I noticed plenty of booze in the kitchen."

"I'm not staying here any longer. I'm going to a bar."

"That may not be a good idea. Remember you're not safe until we're back at the church."

"Sod that," I scream. My foot stamps hard. Rattles the pictures on the wall. "You'll take me to a bloody pub right now."

He shrugs his shoulders. Nods. "But Barabbas and his gang will be out there looking for us."

Those little imps come anywhere near me and I swear I'll pull their heads off. "Bring it on." I push Valentino out of the way. Stomp down the stairs. Pick up the biggest knife I can find in the kitchen and reacquaint myself with the rain.

# Episode Seven

Valentino checks his mirrors for the umpteenth time as we enter the city. His body is stiff with tension. I know he won't relax until we're back. He should have joined me in a large gin and tonic instead of dosing up on caffeine back in the bar.

The taste of juniper lingers in my mouth as we speed along by the side of the Arno. The river is swollen from the rain and keeps apace with us. My jeans stick to my legs and I can't wait to get home to dry off and change.

The road is quiet and we're making good progress. Over in the distance, the dome comes into view and Valentino's shoulders soften under my grip.

Ahead, the traffic lights turn red. We come to a steady halt and he plants his feet on the road. Turns round and lifts his visor.

"Feel better?" It's nice of him to ask.

"I think so." The shivering is more due to the cold than shock.

"It was a good thing you did for Arturo. I won't forget it." He reaches down and pats my knee. "Thanks."

"No worries." It's a lie, but only a small one.

"I'm sorry I was so angry this morning."

"You were upset."

"We've been friends a long time. I can't imagine a world without him in it."

His words have a weight that's far heavier than friendship. I don't know how I missed it before. "You love him don't you?"

"Everybody does."

"No. I mean you really love him."

"Always have." His smile beams. "It's hopeless, of course. He hasn't even noticed. And you mustn't mention a thing."

"I won't."

"Swear?"

"On my mother's grave."

"Not that it would matter if you did. He only has eyes for the ladies."

"Oh?" A spike of jealousy rips through my chest. "Anyone special?"

"I don't think so." The lights turn green. "Not until you came along." He opens the throttle, pulls away and shoots through the gears.

"You think he likes me?" I shout the question as loudly as I can. Get no reply. Try again. Same result. It's infuriating, but I guess I can wait a little longer to find the answer.

We cruise along. The sun breaks through a crack in the clouds and the temperature rises. I think about what Valentino said. Replay the kiss with Arturo in my mind. Remember the softness of his touch. My stomach fizzes. The sooner I'm at his bedside holding his hand, the better.

My world fills up with hope. Not even the closing over of the clouds dampens my spirits. I rest my head on Valentino's back. Pull my arms in and hug him tight. Close my eyes and send him positive vibes.

"Shit," he shouts. The scooter brakes hard. Skids on the wet surface. Lurches to the left. Pulls back upright before I can react. My pulse fires like a machine gun. Pop, pop, pop, pop, pop, pop, pop.

Angry red lights flare at us from the car in front as it screeches to a halt and blocks our side of the road. It's a small green Fiat with bags of style, the kind of car the hip teachers drive to school. Two faces appear in the back window. Bald as coots and ugly as sin. Rose and Thorn.

"That's them." Just in case he hasn't realised.

"Hold on." Valentino accelerates. Swerves round the car towards the river. The wheel crunches over the kerb. Knocks my spine out of alignment. He works the throttle and somehow manages to keep us going. Gives the guys the finger and we speed along the pavement to escape.

We re-join the road. Drive across. Ignore the No Entry sign and turn up a residential street.

I look behind. The tiny car is following, smoke pouring out behind. Barabbas is leaning into the windscreen, his eyes focused on me. He's close enough that I can see the whites of his knuckles as he grips the wheel.

"Faster," I shout at Valentino. I doubt he hears me over the strains of the engine. I push at his arms like I'm encouraging a horse before a big jump. He responds by picking up the pace.

The Fiat closes in. Barabbas wears a baleful grin. I remember smell of his liquorice stick, sickly sweet and intense. The memory makes me want to puke. I'd rather die than have him touch me again. It's good that I have the knife. He comes near me, he'll regret it.

The road bends to the right. We round the curve and almost collide with a bin lorry that looms down upon us. It jerks to a halt with a hiss. We keep going. Veer right. Bump onto the path.

"What the...?" A refuse collector leaps out of the way, leaving his bin in our path. I breathe in. Try to become thinner. Valentino's knee hits the wall. Knocks us the other way. My elbow clatters into the lorry. The scooter scrapes the bin and knocks it over. We almost go over for the umpteenth time. Find our balance and accelerate away.

The man on the floor shakes his fist and shouts. His words are wasted. The only thing they'll get him is a red face and an early grave.

I pat Valentino on the back. Realise he must have been expecting to lose the Fiat as soon as anything came the other way. The benefit of two wheels in a cramped city like this can be huge.

Barabbas and his cronies appear on foot at the back of the lorry.

It's my turn to send them the finger. The satisfaction of getting away melts all my worries to nought.

Rose and Thorn hold their stomachs and laugh. Unease prickles at my skin at the sight. The three share high-fives. Surely that's all wrong.

Valentino lets out a whoop and a cheer. Punches the air and speeds towards freedom.

Flickers of movement on each side of the road catch my attention. I try and get things into focus. See nothing. Shake my head. My sight clears. Poking from doorways on each side of the alley, shiny white faces and raised arms. We race their way. I pull back on Valentino's jacket. Try to get him to slow down.

Something new grabs my attention. A tight blue line stretching across the road blocks our way to freedom.

"Get down," I scream. Valentino turns my way, but it's too late.

The scooter disappears from between my legs as we jerk backwards. Valentino stops. Growls like a bear. Falls into me as we hang in the air. The scooter clatters and continues its journey without us. Slides flat over the road as we drop.

Valentino lands on my chest. He rolls away and comes to rest at the foot of a post. His head lolls to one side like it's no longer connected to anything. Thin nylon rope coils around him like a vine. He gasps for breath like a fish pulled from the river.

I push myself up ready to help.

His mouth changes shape. Forms the word "Go!" His eyes insist.

The two imps responsible for the trick with the rope jump down from their hiding places. Their giggles heat my blood. I slip the strap from under my chin. Remove my helmet and wrap the leather around my fist. The men run at me, hands ready to grab. I swing hard and connect with the head of the first. The sound is crisp and clean, like snooker balls coming together on the baize. I knock the man from his feet and he lands on his backside.

Imp two stares at his friend. I swing the helmet like a backhand tennis shot. Catch him on the temple. He drops to his knees. Kneels for a moment and falls face first to the ground. The thud is soft and satisfying.

Further down the road, Barabbas and his crew sprint towards us. Their tiny limbs pump like pistons. We don't have long.

I rush to Valentino. Try to get him to his feet. He's a dead weight. "Come on," I urge. "We need to leave."

He doesn't respond. I grab his coat. Pull him towards the side of the road out of the way of the traffic. His frame is floppy, his clothes soaked through.

I lift his head and rest it on my lap. See his throat is crushed out of shape. Move him so that the damage is out of sight.

"Arturo." His mouth strains to form the word. It's empty of sound. His eyes bulge. They brighten and fade. I watch the life leave his body and hold tight to his empty shell.

I bend down. Kiss his forehead and jump to my feet.

Barabbas and his gang close in. Their panting is loud and hard and their legs are slowing down. They shouldn't be difficult to lose.

I start to run. My ankle screams in agony. I grit my teeth and press through the pain. The problem refuses to be ignored. I'll never get away like this. Need to come up with a plan or I'm theirs for the taking.

Panic squashes my lungs like a python. Freezes my logical brain. I slow to walking and hobble on.

" _Hide."_ Rory's voice is sharp and insistent. _"Lose them before it's too late."_

His words snap me to attention. I need to do what he says. Speed up and look around for somewhere I can duck into. Hope to find an alleyway or open door. Find nothing. If only there were shops and cafes on the street, I might be in with a chance.

" _Down here,"_ Rory shouts when I reach the crossroads. I turn right. It's just more of the same. Endless houses and locked doors.

" _Under a car if there's nowhere else."_

I only have a few seconds before Barabbas has me back in sight. I throw myself under the bonnet of a people carrier. Pull myself along on my belly until I'm completely under the chassis. My nose scrapes on the exhaust manifold. I turn my face to the side and force my breathing to stop.

Three pairs of shoes slap by. Slow down as they pass the car and come to rest not far away.

"Where'd she go?" Barabbas.

There's puffing and panting. "No idea."

"Well she hasn't just vanished."

I can't hold my breath any longer. It hisses from me like air from a tyre.

"We could split up."

"Good idea. You two take this side. I'll be on the other."

I watch the legs form their groups and disappear.

" _You need to get away from here."_ I wish Rory was more than a voice. What I really need right now is a hug. _"Give them thirty seconds and retrace your steps. See if the scooter's in working order and get yourself to a church. It's the only way to stay alive."_

"Wait a minute." I say it as quietly as I can. "I thought you were desperate to be with me." It was only a while ago he was urging me to end it all.

" _Believe me, I do. But these guys will take you to the other place. I'd never see you again."_

"I don't understand."

" _Heaven and Hell, Nat. They don't mix. Not ever."_ It makes sense. _"So get out of here while you can. At least give us one more chance to sort all this out."_

It's not easy. The adrenaline rush has passed. My ankle throbs. My knees and elbows sting and burn. I worry I'll not be able to get away. Remember the knife I stole from the house. Take it out of my bag and grip the handle ready to defend myself if necessary. I wriggle along and slide out from under the car. Push myself up and limp back the way I came.

A small crowd has gathered around Valentino. Old ladies with faces like walnuts and the men from the bin lorry. They all stop and stare when they realise I'm there.

I ignore them all. Return the knife to the bag and lift the scooter into an upright position. I mount the seat and turn the key. The engine splutters. I try again. It spits and chokes.

"Please," I tell it. Stroke it with my shaking hand. Give it a moment to get itself together. Work the ignition. Not so much as a grunt this time. I give up with the nice approach. Punch the thing hard.

"Hey, lady." The man we nearly ran over. "Where do you think you're going?" He runs towards me, scowling. It's like I've got a target painted on my back and everyone has seen it.

I turn the key. The engine bursts into life. I twist the throttle and set off away from my pursuers without looking behind.

The smell of petrol follows me as the scooter revs high. I need to change gear. Wish I knew how. The machine stutters. Something's not right. The petrol gauge tells me all I need to know. Empty.

The engine jerks. Cuts out altogether.

I freewheel. Cruise to the roadside. Get off and rest the Lambretta against a tree. It may not have got me far, but it's got me out of trouble.

" _A church."_ Rory reminds me of what I need to do next. It shouldn't be difficult to find one here, they're all over the place. I scan the skyline until I find what I need, a spire pointing to the gloomy sky. It's a hundred yards away, give or take. I set off hobbling as quickly as I can. Count the strides as I go, trying to take my mind from the pain.

It works.

The thin building nestles itself between a swanky cafe and a palatial house. Above me, the heads of gargoyles stick out their tongues. They remind me of Rose and Thorn. I go up the steps and try the handle. It turns and pushes open easily. If only the rest of the world would cooperate like this.

It takes me a while to adjust to the light.

Candles flicker on either side. The stained glass depiction of the crucifixion ahead is suitably dark and miserable. There's a hint of incense in the air. The shuffle of my feet echoes as I limp to the pews.

I collapse into the seat. Rest my head on my arms and close my eyes. If anyone walks in, they'll think I'm praying.

My wet clothes suck the heat from my body. The chill seeps through my skin and attacks my core. If I get out of this in one piece, I'm bound to get a cold.

I check my watch. Half past two. The doctor will be with Arturo soon. Unless there's a miracle, I'll miss my list of instructions on how to care for him. Worse still, his best friend is dead and I'm the one who'll have to break the news. The realisation hits me like a train.

"Is there anything that you need?"

The voice comes from behind. It sounds too soft and gentle to wish me harm, but I didn't hear the man approach and that's just not normal. I put my hand into my bag. Take hold of the knife again and prepare to lunge. I raise my head and turn to see who it is.

Behind me stands a priest in full dress, a silver cross gleaming at his chest. Above his collar is a big smile on a young face which doesn't match his grey hair. His eyes sparkle in spite of the darkness.

"No thank you." I remove my hand from the bag and leave the knife where it is. "I came here to work out a few things."

"I wish more people of your age would do the same." He sits next to me. Leaves an acceptable distance between us. "Can't I at least get you a cup of coffee? I have a flask over behind the lectern."

"Do I look that bad?"

"I've seen worse."

"Then I'd love one."

He stands and walks over to the back of the church. Genuflects at the altar and disappears for a moment. "Milk and sugar?" he shouts.

"Please." The milk just like always, the sugar to replace the energy I've expended today.

He carries it over. Passes me the cup and saucer. He hasn't spilled a drop.

"Thanks."

"I'm sorry I didn't bring any biscuits." His hair is gelled into place and his nails are perfectly manicured. "All we have is communion wafers and I'm not sure I should be cracking those open just yet."

"It's fine." I wrap my fingers around the cup. Let the warmth spread through my hands. Feel better already.

"Want to talk about it?"

I sip my coffee. It's strong and hot, which makes it exactly what I need. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

"You could try."

If I knew where to start.

"Do you believe in ghosts?" Maybe that's the best place.

"Yes I do." He sits back and strokes his chin. "The way I see it, they're spirits who haven't managed to lose their connection to the material world."

"So you wouldn't think I was crazy if I told you that I have a ghost that follows me around?"

"Oh?"

"He's not one of those floating sheets or anything. It's just a voice. My ex-boyfriend's."

He smiles at that. "Sometimes the things we see and hear don't exist on the outside. They're just what we need to keep with us in our hearts and minds."

I wonder if that means he thinks I'm mad. The kind look of his eyes says otherwise. "Rory died seven months ago."

"I'm sorry to hear it."

"Me too." Every time I'm reminded, it's like I'm hearing the news for the first time.

"Then it could be that you have unfinished business."

"That's what my doctor says."

"You feel guilty?"

Pressure builds behind my eyes. I nod to tell him that I do.

"It's not uncommon. I see it regularly. For some, it's just a matter of time." He reaches over and touches my shoulder. "For others, I help them with confession and prayer. You'd be surprised at how effective that can be."

I believe what he says. That he could help me if it were that simple. "He wants me to join him in heaven."

The priest's face creases with concern. "He must have loved you very much, but you mustn't listen."

"I try to ignore him, but he won't leave me alone."

"You must resist. He's not thinking straight." He slips his hand into his pocket and removes a set of wooden beads. Plays with them like they're the executive toy of the holy. "God wouldn't want you to do that to yourself. And even if you did, you wouldn't be joining him. Those who take their own lives end up without a final resting place."

"Limbo?"

"Precisely."

"I'll ignore him then."

"You do that."

"Not that it matters. It's the devil who'll get me first."

His fingers work the beads. It's like the answer lies within them. "A young woman like you shouldn't have such thoughts."

"It's why I'm here." I suppose I might as well tell him if I want him to help. "Barabbas is after me. The church is the only place I'm safe."

He looks over to the stained glass window at the back of the building. "And is this Barabbas here now?"

"He won't come after me in while I'm in a church."

"Then you're fine." He returns the beads to his cassock. "Do you have the contact details for that doctor of yours?"

"No." I do, but she's hardly in a position to help.

"Not to worry. Is there anyone else I can contact?"

Maybe he's realised he's out of his depth.

"I have a friend at the Duomo. Would you be able to walk me there? I think that could make everything all right." I figure that walking in the company of a priest might offer similar protection to a church.

"I'm not able to leave until this evening. I could call you a taxi if that would help."

"That's no good. Barabbas will get me. He's already killed one friend and beaten another half to death." The coffee cup rattles on the saucer. The priest reaches over and takes them both from me.

"Maybe it's an exorcism you're after." It doesn't sound as bizarre as it probably should. "Only that's not something I'm qualified to do." His shoulders droop. "I can contact a good friend of mine if you like. He's been known to dabble."

A clatter at the door interrupts. I fall into the priest and cling on to his robes. Bury my face like a child

I tense up and wait for those tiny imp hands to grab at me. Nothing happens. I count to ten.

"Hello Father Luigi." A confident voice. Not unfriendly. "Long time no see."

"Bernard." The priest peels my hands from him. Eases me away and stands. "I thought you were in Rome working for the Holy Father himself."

Bernard is tall and slim. His suit and shoes look expensive. His aftershave smells of musk and spice. He stands between two enormous guys, thick necks and leather gloves. "I've moved on to even bigger things." He walks over and gives Luigi a hug. The embrace is warm and lingering.

"It's good to see you again, Bernard."

"You too." He stands back. Presses Luigi's shoulders. Eyes him up like he's a long lost relative who's about to tell him he's grown. "I only wish I were here under different circumstances." He looks over at me. "It's the girl I'm after. A business matter. I'm sure you understand."

Luigi looks confused. He takes my hand. "I promised I'd take care of her."

"Orders from on high that neither of us can ignore." Bernard cracks a smile. His gold-capped teeth must be worth a mint. "There's no need to worry." He walks over and puts his hand around my waist. Pulls me towards him. "You know you can trust me."

I hold on to Luigi's sleeve. He purses his lips. Looks from me to Bernard and back again. "I'm afraid there's nothing I can do for you now, child. But I know that everything will be all right."

I let go of the sleeve. Allow myself to be taken. Grab my bag and close it so no one can see inside.

"Say a prayer for me, Father," I say to Luigi.

Something tells me, I'm going to need all the help I can get.

# Episode Eight

Saint Sebastian's modesty is protected by the smallest of loin cloths. He's bound to a tree the way he is in nearly every picture I've seen of him. Arrows penetrate his flesh. One pierces his heart and the others are embedded in his side. His head lolls onto his chest. It reminds me of the last time I saw Valentino.

The painting is mounted on the office wall. It's framed in gold. Has a tiny plaque attached that's too far away to read. I'm guessing it's mid-Renaissance. Not that I recognise the artist. Maybe I'll be able to pull off tricks like that once I've finished my degree.

On the desk between Sebastian and I are a phone, a lamp and a slim computer monitor with a keypad. The empty chair on the other side waits to be filled. Raindrops race down the windows and the storm clouds outside refuse to give ground.

Bernard crosses his legs. Thrums his fingers on his thigh. He smiles my way, but there's nothing sincere about it.

The silence is broken by the clacking of stiletto heels on the marble floor. Their sharp taps echo around the room and stop.

"Miss Swift?"

A body appears at my side to join the voice. It belongs to an elegant woman in a tight-fitting skirt and a simple cream blouse. A plain gold crucifix hangs around her neck. Her eye-brows have been plucked to within a hair's-breadth of their lives and she smells like she's been bathing in a vat of perfume.

"Or may I call you Natalie?" She offers her hand. The nails are manicured and painted in the same deep red as her lipstick. I shake it.

"Miss Swift is fine." Until I understand what exactly is going on.

"Ravenna." She tells me and takes her seat. "Ravenna Rossi at your service."

Bernard clears his throat. Leans forward. "She was over at Luigi's."

"You had a lucky escape today." Ravenna places a leather executive case on the table in front of her. "It was very sensible of you to shelter in a church. I'm impressed." She fiddles with the combination. Clicks the catches and opens up. Takes out a pile of papers and arranges them in front of her. "I'm sorry that your friend didn't come out of it quite so well."

Her sympathy sounds cold. I can't help feeling that she had something to do with what happened. Tears warm my eyes as I think of him lying on the street. I fish out a tissue from my bag and dab them dry.

"It was ghastly. He didn't deserve to die that way." The words I throw at her carry barbs.

"You're right. And it was entirely unnecessary." She shuffles the documents. "If you hadn't come along, none of this would have happened."

I'm up on my feet charging at her before I can think. Reach over to grab at her hair. Am almost there when a force pulls me back.

Bernard's arm is wrapped around my waist. He lifts me from the floor. I kick and twist, but he has a good hold.

"Put me down you mafia thug," I scream. My elbow lands in his stomach. It's like I'm hitting a wall. The guy doesn't flinch. Just keeps hold. I keep flying at him. Realise I'm wasting my time. My rage fizzes out to nothing and takes my energy with it. I go limp and Bernard's grip slackens.

"Are we all done?" Bernard isn't even out of breath.

"Yes," I tell him. "I think so."

He puts me down. I smooth out my clothes and return to my seat.

Ravenna looks cool and unflustered as if nothing has happened. "You don't look the type to take a tantrum. And I was told that you were a plucky one."

I can't decide whether the chair has grown or whether I've shrunk in the face of her words.

"The thing is," she goes on. "Finding couriers isn't difficult. We don't need them often. Their hours are minimal and there are plenty of perks." She may have grown up in the heat of Italy, but there's ice-water running through those veins. "Not like Arturo. Artists with that talent are rare indeed. How is our friend, by the way? Has he recovered from your interference?"

This time I manage to maintain control and let it slide. "Valentino told me he'd be fine. As long as he didn't mess up on any more jobs, he'd be protected."

"Which brings me to the point of our meeting."

Finally.

"You stepped in to take Arturo's place for a contract up in Fiesole this afternoon."

"He's correct."

"And did everything that was required."

"I did my best."

"On this occasion, that was enough."

It's a relief to hear. At least I know that Arturo is still safe.

"In fact Bernard thought you showed a lot of promise." She reaches into her case. Takes out a book I recognise. My sketches from the holiday so far.

"Where did you get that?" I push myself up. Get ready to protest. Bernard's arm shoots out and bars my way. I get the message and sit down again.

Ravenna tilts her head back and laughs. It's hoarse and bitter sounding. Reminds me of the wicked queen in Sleeping Beauty. "My poor dear, have you not realised yet how far our powers extend?"

She's right. The penny should have dropped by now. Not that it stops me from wanting to slap the smug expression from her face. If Bernard weren't here I might give it a go, no matter how high and mighty the woman is.

"You're good." She flicks through the pages of my jotter. "And it would be a shame to let your skills go to waste."

At last, I think I understand where this is leading.

"As I said before," she says. "Those with the talent and temperament to be collectors don't come around often. I believe that you fit the bill on both counts." She closes my book. "And for that reason, I have a proposal for you to consider."

I dig my thumbnail into my skin. The sharpness tells me I'm still awake. That I have to take this seriously. "I didn't come to Florence looking for a job. I'll be attending university in September if I get my grades."

"In Cambridge, I understand."

"How did you...?" There's no point finishing the question.

"That's impressive. And I wouldn't want to get in the way of you bettering yourself."

"So I could still go?"

"Of course."

"And work for you on the side. Is that it?"

"We have a need for collectors all over the world. I'm sure you can understand that."

I guess that wherever there are people, there'll be death. "I suppose I could do with some money to supplement my student grant."

Another toss of the head and a callous laugh. "Didn't Arturo tell you anything?"

I flick back to the conversation in the hotel room. The one where he mentioned that payment had nothing to do with money. "You expect me to carry out your errands in exchange for staying young?"

"I'd say that was more than fair remuneration."

"I could get minimum wage working on the checkouts at Asda."

"Sure. And you'll age and wrinkle like the rest of them."

There's nothing easy about comparing an eternal life as a teenager to eight pounds an hour. They're like apples and oranges. It's a good thing for me that I like all kinds of fruit.

"Think about it." Ravenna settles back in the chair as if she's a lawyer whose case is complete. "A few drawings here and there to help people reach their final destination. What could be simpler?"

" _Don't listen to her."_ Rory. His voice is loud and insistent _. "If you take her up on the offer, we'll never be together again."_

"Oh, shut up Rory," Ravenna barks. "The whole world may have revolved around you in the land of the living. Where you are, things are a little different."

Everything jolts to a halt. My brain cells go into overdrive and begin to overheat. It takes a moment for the world to fall back into place, but when it does, it lands with full force.

"You can hear him?" Is it possible that Rory hasn't simply been the product of my crumbling imagination?

"Clear as anything."

"So he's really here in the room?"

"I'm sure he sticks to you like glue."

I look around. Register the smile on Bernard's lips. There's no one else to see.

"Rory?"

" _Right beside you, Nat. Just like always."_

"You think I should ignore this opportunity?" I carry on talking to the air.

" _I'm not sure I can bear living forever without being able to touch you."_ His throat sounds tight and dry, like he's on the edge.

"Poor Rory." Ravenna's sarcasm kind of suits her. "Living in a land of milk and honey with no one to give him a cuddle before he goes to sleep."

" _It's all right for you."_ Rory's in a huff _. "You weren't separated from the love of your life before you were ready to leave."_

"Nobody's ever prepared to cross over, Rory." Ravenna fiddles with her earrings. "You get what you get and that's all there is to it."

"Stop it you two." I'm sick of the pair of them already. "I need some quiet so I can think."

The room settles. I close my eyes and collect the pieces of my world into one place. Dee's in hospital. Arturo lies battered in the crypt of a church. Valentino's dead. The woman in front of me is offering me some kind of immortality. My dead boyfriend is stalking me and he wants me to join him on the other side. And I've not long since collected the soul of a lovely old man and made his wife a widow. It's completely bananas, the lot of it.

I shake it all away. Open my eyes. Ravenna files her nails with an emery board. Bernard fiddles with his phone. I have no idea what Rory's doing, but I know he's hanging around somewhere.

"How long before I have to decide?" I ask.

Ravenna curls her fingers and blows their tips. "Normally you get twenty-four hours, but I can see that there are complicating factors." She puts her board down and straightens her back. "I could stretch to forty eight if you think you need it."

Two days. I figure that should be enough.

Ravenna takes a card from her case. Passes it over. "Call Bernard as soon as you know. If he hasn't heard from you by this time on Tuesday, the deal's off. You'll have to take full responsibility for any consequences."

If that's a threat, I haven't got the energy to worry about it. I pick up my bag. Take out my wallet and slide Ravenna's card in next to the one Red and Green gave me.

"And now, Bernard. Would you be so kind as to take our guest to wherever she'd like to be."

Bernard puts his phone away. Makes a fist and crunches his knuckles. Does the same with the other hand. Stands and pulls the car keys from his trousers.

"I'll be in touch," I say and leave the room without turning to say goodbye.

*

It doesn't look like Arturo's moved since I last saw him. I kick off my damp shoes and rush over, hoping like hell that he's still alive. His chest rises and falls. Relief whooshes through me like a wave.

The bruising around his eyes looks worse than ever and the swelling of his mouth must be full of pain. I bend down. Kiss him gently on the lips to make them better. He's warm and clammy and tastes sour like yeasty bread.

" _Are you just doing that to hurt me?"_ Rory.

"Don't be ridiculous." I tell him that, but he might just have a point. "I'm just glad he's okay is all."

" _I don't reckon Florence Nightingale ever snogged a patient while they were unconscious."_

"That was the Crimean War for God's sake." He's really trying my patience. "And that wasn't a snog. It was just a..." I'm not sure there's a word for it. "Peck."

" _He doesn't look too good. I'd get him to hospital if I were you. To someone who knows what they're doing."_

He's probably right. I'm not sure I have what it takes to bring him back to health.

" _And if this is what Ravenna means by keeping someone safe, I'm not sure you should be signing your life away to her."_

"I've signed nothing," I remind him. "It's not my fault she's impressed by my work."

" _Fair enough."_ This time his words are soft and close.

My neck prickles as if he's blowing love over my skin.

" _I'm sorry for being so selfish."_ His whisper is right in my ear. The tickle lights up my soul. _"I just need to touch you. Two people becoming one again. Like a pair of melting marshmallows you used to say."_

It's how he made me feel. No longer just me, but totally mixed in with his being. Like paints on a palette being blended until an entirely new colour was invented. They were the happiest moments of all.

" _Imagine having all that again."_ His words bring me out in goose bumps. _"Only this time it would really be forever."_

I want his arms around me, strong and safe. Need his body close. Could leave my life right now if I really knew we would be reunited.

"That you Nat?" Arturo breaks the spell. The magic is gone.

"I'm here."

"And Valentino?" He pushes himself up. His eyes search the room. He looks so frail, I'm not sure he can cope with the truth.

"He can't be here just now." Which isn't even a lie. I pick up the glass of water from the bedside table. Hold it out. He leans forward to meet the drink. I tilt it and pour water into his mouth. Some of it misses the target and drips down his chin. The effort seems to exhaust him and he falls back down into the pillow.

"You were talking to someone."

I get a towel and pat him dry. "Only to myself."

"The first sign of madness."

"If that's true, I've always been crazy."

"How come I always fall for the insane ones?"

This guy's impossible. There's no way he should have the strength to flirt. Not that I mind. "Has the doctor been?"

"He was here a few hours ago. There's medicine in a bag by the sink and he wrote you a note to go with it."

"That's great."

"He hoped to see you in person."

"I had to go."

"Did you forget what I said about staying here to stay safe?"

"There wasn't any choice. Valentino brought you a job. You were unconscious. Even if we'd woken you, your fingers are in no shape to draw."

He holds up his hand. Looks at his bandaged hand. Nods.

"So what happened?"

"Valentino saw my sketchbook. He said that going through with the job was the only way we could keep you safe."

"What was the work?"

"An old man falling from a ladder in his home." The cheery notes of the guy's whistle echo around my mind.

"That must have been tough." It's nice of him to care.

"There wasn't time to think."

"But it's not easy witnessing the end of a life."

"No." I see him take his dying breath. Block out the picture before it can overwhelm me.

"And you managed to pull it off?"

"According to Ravenna, yes we did."

"You met Ravenna?" It sounds like an accusation.

"She sent Bernard for me."

Arturo sits up, eyes wide. "Then this must be serious."

"It's nothing to worry about."

"Let me be the judge of that."

I'm not sure whether he's strong enough for any of this. Decide that anything which keeps the subject from Valentino is worth talking about. "She's offered me a job."

"As?"

"As a collector. Just like you."

Arturo's face crumples with concern and then relaxes. "Wow. That's an enormous compliment."

"I hadn't thought of it that way."

"Did you take it?"

"I need time to work things out."

"She offered you eternal youth?"

"Yep."

"Then what's to work out?"

I wonder if I should tell him about Rory. Bring up his objections. Can't. "It's not as simple as it might seem."

"Well I hope you take it." He points to the glass. I give him another drink and return it to the table. "It would mean we had another thing in common."

"Oh? And what exactly is it that we share?"

"We're both good looking for a start. We love paintings and we're talented artists."

"Thank you."

"We adore Florence and we both like to talk to ourselves."

"Everyone loves this city."

"That's right. But how many of them have the opportunity to live for ever?" It's a good point. "You being offered this job, it's like it's our destiny to be together. Just like I thought the moment I first saw you."

" _Give it a rest."_ Rory is loud and insistent. If he were physically here, I'd give him an elbow in the ribs.

"It might not be that simple," I tell Arturo. "I'd be working in England while I'm studying. Relationships never work when distance is involved."

"We could work something out."

"Who said anything about us having a relationship anyway?"

" _You did."_ Rory again. _"Idiot."_

I want to slap Rory across the face. Instead, I go over to the sink and pick up the bag the doctor left. Pull out the note and read.

Two painkillers every three hours. Next dose, 6 pm.

The handwriting is almost illegible.

_Try and get him to eat. He needs a lot of fluids and plenty of rest. I'll return tomorrow to dress the wounds_.

I check my watch. It's almost seven. I take out the bottle and unscrew the lid. Shake two pills onto my palm. Drop them to the floor when a knock on the door makes my whole body jump.

"Hello?" The voice outside is timid. "Is this Arturo's room?"

Arturo looks to me for an answer. I don't have one to give.

More knocks. Firmer this time. "I have something for you. A rush job. Ravenna said it was important."

Hormones pulse through me at the mention of her name. I do my best to keep my head. Breathe out slowly and count to ten. Need to deal with our visitor outside and make sure Arturo doesn't hear.

"I'm on it." I go to the door, open it and begin to step through. The spotty youth on the other side has other ideas. He pushes past me and stands in the middle of the room, a courier bag hanging over his shoulder.

"Thank goodness for that," he says, pulling off his leather gloves. His hair is greasy and he smells of Patchouli oil.

I grab hold of his shoulder. Turn him and try to move him from the room. "It might be better if we do this outside. Arturo isn't..."

"I'm fine." Arturo stops me in my tracks. "Whatever it is that's happening, I need to know."

"It's a job. Over in the main square." The pimply guy addresses us both, as if unsure about which of us is in control. Checks his watch. "There isn't much time."

"I don't understand." Arturo sounds worried. "Valentino always brings the news."

"Haven't you heard?" The boy's voice quakes. "Valentino..." His gaze sweeps the floor. "... has passed over."

I know he's only the messenger, but I'd shoot him if I could.

"What's he saying, Natalie?" Arturo looks confused, as if the courier has been speaking in a different language. If I can get the courier out of the room, maybe I can stall the truth a little longer.

"This afternoon," the guy says. "Came off his bike down by the river."

Arturo looks like he's drowning.

I can't bear to see him hurt. Try desperately to think of something that might soften the blow. "It was over quickly." The words spurt from my mouth like clumsy elephants. I rush to my friend to help him digest what I'm trying to say. Get there too late to stop the convulsions of his grief from ripping the seams of his heart. I rest my hand on his side. He rolls up into a ball and pulls himself away. His energy evaporates and I worry again that he's not going to pull through.

There's only one thing I can do to help.

I grab the envelope from the courier and tear open the seal.

# Episode Nine

"Dee. It's me."

The squeal in my headphones practically bursts my eardrums. "Nat! Thank goodness. I was getting worried."

"Don't be silly. I'm not the one who's in hospital. How are things?"

"The doctors are delighted. Everything went swimmingly."

"Great." I pace around outside the church as we talk, watching for signs of Barabbas and his crew.

"My only problem's going to be getting through airport security with all these screws in me." She chews on something. I guess I'm interrupting her breakfast. "Talking of screws, how are things with your hot Italian?"

I bite my nails. "It's complicated."

"Don't tell me he's married."

"No. He's lovely."

"Then what could possibly be wrong?"

I suck in air. Prepare to deliver the line I've rehearsed. "It's Rory. He's not happy."

The pause is almost as deafening as her shriek. "Tell me all about it." Her voice is calm and soothing. She'll make a great GP one day.

"He won't let me go." I know how ridiculous it must sound, but I need to get it off my chest. "I think he might be jealous."

"And what kind of things is he saying?"

"About how much he wants to be with me again."

"Does he say how he thinks this is going to happen?"

She's taking me further than I want to go. I'm not sure how to answer. "That I could take my own life and join him in heaven."

"Oh Nat." She's like the big sister I used to depend on. "You are taking your medication aren't you?"

"Without fail." Or not far off.

"And you've never been tempted to try and...join him?"

"Never."

Dee sighs. "Thank goodness. You had me worried."

"I do have a mind of my own, you know."

"Boy, don't I just." She laughs.

"I need you to tell me what to do, Dee. I'm not thinking straight. I wish you could come out here and give me a cuddle."

"I'll send hugs in a text."

"Thanks."

"And after that I'll get in touch with your therapist. Would you mind?"

"No." I shake my head even though she can't see me.

"I'll make sure she gives you a call. She'll know what to do for the best."

"Okay."

"And you need to hang in there. It won't be long before we go to university. If you're not around, I won't be able to enjoy a thing."

"Aren't you getting ahead of yourself?" There's still the matter of the results to contend with. "Let's not make plans till we know for sure. I don't want to jinx it all."

"It's in the bag, Nat." She's so full of confidence. It's one of the things I love about her and it's exactly what I need just now. "I creamed those exams. You did too. They're lucky to be getting us and so will all those tasty guys we've yet to meet. So don't you worry about a thing." The way she paints the pictures, college life will be all play and no work. Course, I know that as soon as we get there her head will be buried in books or rooting around in dissected corpses. Whatever else you can say about Dee, her head is definitely screwed tightly on. "And if Rory comes back to try and persuade you to do something stupid, remember that he wasn't perfect." She never really took to him. "In fact, he could be a bit of an arse."

"I haven't forgotten."

"He didn't want to share your life so completely when he was still with us. Keep that in your head and you'll be fine."

"I can do that."

"Good." Job done, I hear her thinking.

"There's one more thing you could do for me."

"What's that?"

"Get in touch with my mother." I can't face talking to her right now. I'd break down in tears. She'd get on at me to take the next flight home and I can't do that with Barabbas after me. "Tell her everything's fine. That I miss her and that the weather's been fab."

"And that you're taking all the vitamins she packed."

"That too."

"Anything else?"

"Remember that I love you."

"I do."

"And don't forget to send those hugs."

"They're on their way, doll." She blows a kiss into the phone.

"Get well soon," I tell her and hang up. It's time to get back into the sanctuary of the dome and work out what I'm going to do about Ravenna's offer.

*

"Where did you stay last night?" Arturo looks stronger than the last time I saw him. Maybe it's just that he's standing up.

"I went to pray in the church." Mainly because I couldn't cope with any more of his grief. "I guess I must have fallen asleep."

"How did it go with the collection?" His hair is brushed into a neat ponytail and his one good hand is scrubbed clean. The bed sheets, draped around the room, are dripping dry. The soapy smell reminds me of school.

"It was easy enough." I was surprised at how it went. Instead of worrying about the lady who was about to fall from her balcony, I simply got on with the drawing. Maybe there's something wrong with me, but it was no big deal. If anything, I had a good time. Working the chalk was a pleasing distraction from all that's been going on. And I did a good job of it, too. "I didn't stick around to see what happened."

"What about the new boy? Think he's up to the job?"

"Enzo? He's no Valentino if that's what you mean."

"It's what I meant."

"He did everything I needed. Got me there. Kept me calm. Made sure I finished on time."

"That's good."

"You cleaned the place up while I was away."

"I couldn't bear my smell any longer."

"You're not the only one." We laugh together. It's a relief to change the mood for a while.

"And I needed a distraction." His shoulders dip. I wonder if the new light in him has already been snuffed out. I need to raise his spirits before he gets worse.

"Valentino loved you." I know I swore I wouldn't tell, but I think him dying like he did changes the rules.

"We were friends for a long time." He's totally unaware of the way it was.

"I mean he was _in love_ with you. Fancied you. Wanted to share your life and all that."

Arturo stumbles backwards towards the bed. Sits down on the mattress and swings his legs like a child. "How do you know?"

"It was the last conversation we had."

His expression is blank. "To think of all those years we had together and I didn't have a clue." He pinches the top of his nose. Rubs his eyes. "I'm such a blind fool."

I sit down. Put my arm around him and pull him close. "It's not always easy to see what's right in front of you."

"It must have been terrible. I wish I'd known. I could have changed things."

"You'd have married him and run off into the sunset?"

"I could never do that. Not even for Valentino."

"Then stop beating yourself up. Imagine he'd told you. How would it have made life any easier?"

"I might have been a better friend."

"I doubt it." I think of the way they were together. The ease with which they moved around each other. They were like Dee and I, tied together by invisible elastic.

"If only I could talk with him. Have him explain what it was like. I think that would make me feel better."

"And can't you?" Surely someone who is trusted with the collection of souls must know how to contact the other side. "There must be a way."

He scratches his goatee. Pulls the end to a point and twists it together. "I was told about that when I was first recruited. Some of the old-timers were getting drunk and showing off about what they could do. I learned a lot that night."

"Oh?"

"When they lost someone close, they told me, they would draw a round window onto the ground. Whoever they wanted to see would appear and they would get their chance to say goodbye."

"But you've not tried?"

"I never had good reason."

"Then why don't you?"

"It's too early. I should think about him instead of me. I'll give him time to settle and if I still need to straighten things, I'll do it."

What a sweet thing to say. I kiss him on the forehead. Pull his head to my shoulder and keep him there.

"Even if I was being selfish, it wouldn't be a sensible thing to do."

"Oh? Why not?" I stroke his hair as gently as I can.

"Because being connected with the other side can do funny things to you." His voice is barely a whisper now. "The people there are like sirens. They want to lure their loved ones in. Many collectors have been lost that way."

"Then I won't let you try."

"I'm glad," he says and curls his legs up onto the bed. I rock him side to side to bring him comfort. His breathing slows and his body twitches in my arms. I lay him down and let him catch up on his rest, just like the doctor ordered.

*

" _Draw the window."_ Rory's voice wakes me from a light sleep. Whatever I was dreaming of is locked away for ever.

I stretch my back and legs. Sip water from the bottle. Give myself a moment to get my bearings. The stone walls and uneven floor remind me I'm still in the church.

" _You heard what he said. We can see each other again."_

There's a chill to the air. I pull a cardigan from my bag and push my arms through the sleeves.

" _Just get out your pastels and get on with it."_

I ignore him. Maybe if I keep it up, he'll get bored and leave me alone.

" _Nat? Don't be like this. I'm only trying to put the pieces of the puzzle back together."_ I stay as still as I can manage. _"You know you want to."_

Those words drill deep into my world.

" _I still love you, babe."_ His words tickle my lobe. Send shivers to my toes.

"It's the middle of the night, Rory. I'm tired and hungry." He doesn't know the half of it. "Can't we do it in the morning?"

" _I need to touch you."_ His presence materialises as a physical force. It's as if his hands are touching mine. The hairs on my arms stand to attention as he moves along to my shoulders. The nibble of delight warms the base of my neck. It's like he's seducing me for the first time, slow and patient and paying attention to every detail. My appetite for him is rekindled. I'm ravenous. Need him everywhere at once. _"Right now."_

"Wait." I crawl to the sink. Squeeze toothpaste onto my brush and clean my teeth. Wash my face and hands. Dab perfume onto my wrists and collar bones. Roll deodorant under my arms. If we're going to meet up, I don't want to smell like a tramp.

I take the lamp down from the hook, turn up the wick and rest it on the floor. Pull out my box of crayons, kneel down and set to work.

First I need an image to work from. I imagine a derelict stone cottage in the middle of a wood, hidden among overhanging trees and wild ferns. See a round frame in the only intact wall. Memorise my creation and draw.

" _Make it bigger."_ Rory's direction. _"You'll only see my face through that."_

I start again. This time the arc has my arms at full stretch. I draw another circle inside the first and set to shade the frame in brown. I add scuffs and scratches to give it the authentic appearance of the window in my mind. To finish it off, I add the ivy leaves and the moss.

" _It's amazing."_ Rory's encouragement always meant a lot. _"Are you ready?"_

"I don't know. Let me wash my hands and I'll clear up."

" _Don't bother."_ He sounds impatient. _"It's the way I remember you. All covered in different colours of chalk dust or splodges of ink."_

"Okay." I wipe my hands on my skirt anyway. Lean over my drawing and wait for him to arrive.

His face pops up before me. Makes me jump even though I knew he was on his way.

It's not like seeing him through glass. It's more like he's swimming in a pool of viscous pink water. The smile on his face is there, just like always. The one that says everything is going to be all right, even if it isn't. His curls frame his face like a lion's mane and his beard is as well-groomed as ever. I guess they must have combs and razors in heaven just like everywhere else.

His mouth forms strange shapes that must be making words, but it's like someone's turned the volume control to mute.

"I can't hear." I exaggerate the movement of my lips so that he can read what I say.

He shrugs his shoulders. Reaches out. Places his fingers on where the glass would be if the window were real.

I put my fingers on his. All I feel is cold stone.

" _Maybe there's a magic spell,"_ I think he says. He waves his arms as if he's holding a wand. _"Abracadabra."_

"I always said you paid too much attention to those Harry Potter films."

He furls up his eyebrows to show he doesn't understand. Folds his arms and looks around the frame as if looking for a clue.

I can't believe we've come this far just to be thwarted. Wish there were such a thing as magic. That way, everything would be so much simpler.

His palms spread on the glass. He pushes hard and the strain shows on his face. Veins I've never seen before pop up in his forearms. It's all to no avail. He swears. Steps away. Turns and punches the space between us.

The thud sounds dull. Like there's material wrapped around his hand and he's standing far away. He shakes his hand up and down. The fingers bend and twist as if they're made of rubber. His mouth opens wide. Gives me a perfect view of his teeth and tonsils.

There's probably a scream to go with all the actions. I'm grateful I can't hear it.

I look away and check that we haven't disturbed Arturo. He's lying perfectly still with his back to me.

I turn back and Rory is knocking to get me attention.

" _A handle."_ He points to the bottom of the frame. _"Draw a handle so we can open it."_ Mimes doing precisely that.

"Don't be daft." I can't believe he's being so irrational.

" _Go on."_

I don't know where my reservations come from. Maybe it's Arturo's warning. Or because the tingling around my body has gone. Either way, I'm not sure this is a good idea.

"I don't know," I say.

His face loses its shape. He puts his hands together as if he's praying. _"Please."_

It's that hurt look that always won me over when we were together. I can't bear to see him suffer.

I pick out a copper crayon from the box. Draw a hinges on either side of the frame. Change the colours and set to work on a handle. My hands shake. The lines are less than perfect.

Rory gives me the thumbs up. Smiles at me and opens up.

Warm light spills over the floor. A wave of sound rushes past my ears. It's as if the wind and the sea have united in perfect harmony.

" _You did it, Nat_." Rory's voice is soft. The sharp edges I've become used to have gone. " _You're a bloody genius."_

The light engulfs me. It's like being in a club as the DJ plays the coolest track and the strobes freeze the world in cross-sections of the happiest days of your life.

"I'm sorry." These are the first words that pop out of my mouth. Usually, when I think about our last moments together and want to apologise, it hurts. I fall apart and burst into tears. Not this time. It's as if all my pain has been drained away.

" _What are you talking about?_ " Rory seems puzzled.

"About what happened before you were shot. For not understanding that you needed space. For running out on you the way I did." These ideas have circled my mind ever since his death. Hovered above me wherever I've been.

" _Don't be silly. It wasn't your fault."_ He moves closer. _"I understand."_

"I'd change everything if I could."

" _I know."_

"But it's done. Turning the clocks back isn't possible."

" _That's just it. We don't need to look to the past. This is all about embracing our future."_

Confusion surrounds the edges of my thoughts. Our future? Like there's some way of joining our two worlds together. I imagine a wedding set up with all the living on the one side of the church and all the dead on the other. I can't begin to picture what the photograph album would look like.

" _All you need to do is to slip through_." His words jumble my thoughts. " _At least come and see what it's like. I promise you, you won't come to any harm_."

The strange tunes are hypnotic. I want to concentrate, but they won't let me. Arturo's words pop into my head and flash like a lighthouse. I think of the sirens and their songs. The way they lured sailors to their rocky coasts. Their beauty in the paintings I recall – Waterhouse, Frost, Draper. Their names merge into one and dissolve to nothing.

" _I've wanted to touch you for so long_." His words float above the music like kites catching the breeze. " _This is heaven, they say. And it is. Almost. Only without you here to share it with, I might as well be burning up in the flames of hell."_ I don't remember him being quite this romantic. " _Let me hold you. If I can't have you forever, give me one more moment that I can savour for the rest of time_."

A last hug for him to enjoy. The chance to turn his eternity into the sunny place it should be. To make amends for those last minutes we spent together. Surely there can be no harm in that.

"Just one," I say and reach through the window in the floor. It's warm and comforting like the Mediterranean. I want to dive in and immerse my whole body in the pool of joy on the other side.

Rory strokes my palms and the backs of my hands. " _I told you, didn't I? This is how it should be. Tell me you feel it, too_."

"I do." All of a sudden, all of the months of pain are behind me. The therapy. The pills. The days spent hiding under my duvet. They're gone. In their place, a confident me. An individual without self-doubt or anger. A new person full of peace and beauty. Someone I don't recognise.

" _Come closer_ ," he urges. " _Let me hold you in my arms for one final time_."

Doubt clutches at my heart, but the new me is desperate to enter. I lean in further. Put in my head. My neck. My shoulders.

The gentle sounds I loved from the outside pound at my eardrums and start to hurt. Pressure builds until they feel ready to pop.

My eyes burn, just like when I'm swimming with no goggles. My skin itches and screams. If I didn't know better I'd say I was allergic to Heaven.

I inhale, but it's all wrong. Like breathing in warm honey. I pull my hands from Rory's. Flap them in the air so he'll understand. I'm not waving, I'm drowning.

He doesn't seem to get it. Just grabs me round the wrists and yanks me in.

"I can't," I try to say, but my words are lost in the sea of fluid.

" _You must_." Rory's expression has changed. The sweetness gone. Now he wears the tight lips of determination.

"No!" It should be the loudest shout ever, but there's nothing to hear.

I do my best to fight my way back to my side of the world. Strain every sinew to stay in the land of the living. Press my knees into the rough stone above and urge them to find purchase. Feel their grip diminish as I slide in up to my waist.

" _Don't fight it."_ Rory's voice is strained. _"It won't be long now and we'll be together."_ He stops pulling for a moment. _"Forever."_

I stare at his face. It bends in and out of focus as my brain begins to melt. The will to resist has gone. My world is coming to an end.

"Stop!" The word pierces the wall of noise that's assaulting my ears. It's Arturo, I'm sure it is.

Strong hands grab my hips. Heave me back towards the church.

Opposing forces tug me back and forth. My vertebrae jolt apart as I stretch.

Arturo's arm wraps around my stomach. Lifts me in a sudden jerk.

Rory's grip gives. My arms slip from his grasp and I tumble backwards. My back crashes into the floor. I gasp. Fill my lungs with air and pass out.

# Episode Ten

Arturo scrubs away, obliterating the window I drew on the floor. He's working so hard, it's as if he wants to erase the memories of the last few days.

"That should be enough," I tell him, not wanting him to waste his energy.

He ignores my advice and continues with the fervour of a miner who senses gold. His clothes are damp with sweat and his hair slaps his face as he cleans. The pendant swings like a pendulum beneath his chest and his grunts work in time with the cloth as it scours the stone.

I hate to see him in this state. Reach over and touch his shoulder. "You can stop now." His rhythm slows. "Please."

He pushes himself away from the wet sludge. Sits down with his back against the wall. Unravels the sopping bandage from his hand.

"You can't take that off." I sound like my mother. "What will the doctor say?"

He removes the dressing. Holds up his fingers and flexes them. "Look. Good as new."

It's true. There's not a kink or a bruise in sight. I check his face. Realise that the markings have gone. "You're better?"

He pokes at his chest and stomach. Examines his arms and legs. "I think I am."

"But that's not possible."

"No?" He laughs. "Is it any less likely than your dead boyfriend trying to kidnap you?"

I don't suppose it is. Nothing's quite what it was anymore. "How can it be?"

"To tell you the truth, I don't understand it myself." He stands up. Steps over to the sink and turns on the taps. Lifts the bottom of his shirt and pulls it over his head. "Maybe it has something to do with being on the other side."

"That would make sense." If anything does these days.

Arturo fills his hands with water and splashes it onto his face. He bends and rinses his hair. His frame is lean and tight, the muscles perfectly defined beneath the skin. He has the kind of body an artist would love to draw. Or even to touch and get to know better.

He picks up a flannel and wipes his torso. Cleans under his arms. Reaches around to wash his back. Doesn't manage to get to the very top.

I get up. Step over. "Here. I'll do that." He allows me to take the flannel. Leans into the wall and stands still. I wipe away the grime and the sweat while admiring his body. The urge to touch him is overwhelming. "Thanks for saving me back there."

"I couldn't let you disappear. I've only just found you." If there were ever a perfect way to phrase a sentence, I reckon that was it. "You must love him very much."

Why does he have to mention Rory? I don't ever want to think of him again. "I suppose I did once." I shift Arturo's hair so that I can clean the back of his neck. "But it wasn't love that made me try and see him again." Now I've finally seen him, everything has become clear. "It was guilt that drove me on. And he did his best to make sure I didn't forget him." I wipe Arturo's neck. Reach out with my free hand and watch my shaking fingers come to rest upon his shoulders. Wait to hear Rory's reprimand shatter the silence, but the tranquillity remains unbroken.

Arturo turns slowly, not breaking our connection. He looks down into my eyes. My fingertips trace the edges of his ribs.

He takes my chin and lifts my face. His lips brush mine and my insides dance like a stage-shy ballerina. I kiss him back. Soak up the tenderness and let it nourish my body and my soul.

*

The bed's too small for two. I cuddle into Arturo and we manage. I want to burst into laughter and song, but keep the joy locked inside. Ripples of pleasure pulse through my soul. I lay my head on my lover's chest and draw lazy circles on his hip with my thumb.

Arturo stares at the ceiling. Blows smoke through his nostrils. Pulls me close. "You decided what to do about Ravenna's proposal?"

I've not thought about anything outside of this room for the past hour. "I'm not sure I'm ready to make a decision like that."

"It's a big one. There's no doubt about that." He draws upon his cigarette. Puffs out more clouds. "But you still need to make it."

"I guess." Only I don't want to think about it just now. It's not that I'm hiding my head in the sand. It's more that I want to savour every moment of this experience.

"So what are you going to do?"

"I don't know." I'd normally talk to Dee about something like this. Let her guide me through the pros and cons. This time, I figure there's no way I can explain the ins and outs without forcing her to conclude that I'm barking mad. "All I really have to do is work out whether to follow my head or my heart."

"Tell me what your head says."

"It's telling me to sign on the dotted line." Eternal youth and the chance of sharing the secret with the man next to me! Being on Ravenna's team would definitely have its advantages.

"And your heart?"

"That's easy. It's screaming at me to get as far away from her as possible."

Arturo pushes himself up. Holds me close as he rolls onto his side and stubs his cigarette into the ashtray. He turns back and points to the middle of my chest. "That's what matters. The answers you get from there."

"I usually follow my instincts, but..." Look where that got me. I almost followed Rory into his grave.

"But nothing. If it's telling you to leave, that's what we should do."

"We?"

He kisses my neck. Sends pulses of pleasure through to my fingers and toes.

"You'd come with me?"

"Like I said, I'm not letting you getting away just yet."

"And you wouldn't mind coming to England?" I imagine Mum's face when I introduce her to our new lodger. Her jaw dropping. Her eyes practically popping out of her head.

"It would be a dream come true."

"Then that's what we'll do." If only it were that simple.

"Cool."

"It would be if it Barabbas wasn't on my trail."

Arturo doesn't seem to be listening. He traces my collar bone with his tongue.

"Unless..." I remember I have the card that Red and Green gave me. Their _'if we can do anything'_ promise when they handed it over.

Arturo's hand slips under the sheet. Strokes my knee and sends jolts of pleasure into my core. He brushes his lips against my neck and works his way to my ear. The tickles are insane.

I slide down the mattress. Pull him close. The call to Red and Green can wait till later.

*

Arturo and I step through the passport control towards the departure lounge. I turn back and wave at the two detectives who got us here. They stand shoulder to shoulder as if blocking our return.

"You ever think of coming back to Italy," Red shouts, "try Rome."

"Or Venice." Green.

"I hear Sicily's nice," I call back and take Arturo's arm. "Thanks for everything." They've been brilliant. Collected us and drove us here. Even arranged a temporary passport for Arturo so he could come along.

Now their eyes stare like they've been glued into their sockets. I give up trying to be nice and skip to keep up with my friend.

The departure board tells me there are twenty minutes until take off. I'm glad Red and Green arranged it like this, though I wish they'd escorted us all the way. I miss their size and strength and the feeling of security their presence brings.

As we walk along the corridor I'm on full alert. My eyes scan the hall for people under four feet tall. No one fits the bill.

We approach the escalators up to the shopping mall. I could do with buying a bottle of water and I'd love a little something stronger to settle my nerves, but there's no time.

Arturo stops at the bottom. "Drink?"

I stretch and kiss him on the lips, a thank you for him reading my mind. "Maybe when we're in the air. Come on."

I try to set off, but Arturo holds me back.

"I meant for me." His voice is thin and shaky. "I've never flown before." His hands tremble and his chin drops at the admission.

"Don't be silly. There's nothing to it." I hold him close. Put my mouth to his ear and speak softly. "All we have to do is sit there and let the pilot do all the work. Not to mention that I'll be there to look after you."

He rubs his temple. "But how can such a heavy object manage to stay in the air?"

"You don't have to understand how something works to know that it does. And it's a lot safer than whizzing through the city on a scooter." I immediately think of Valentino. Picture him hanging garrotted on a wire.

"Oh." Arturo's shoulders slump. I know I've reminded him of his friend and need to change the subject.

"There's more chance of being hurt in a car crash than in the air." It sounds good. "So there really isn't anything to fear."

I put my arm around his waist. Usher him forward. He takes small steps and we hit our stride.

It's not a big airport and we're at the gate in no time. The boarding queue is already formed. We join the tail and shuffle forwards as the people in front wander through. I watch for the little guys. Still nothing. I cross my fingers tight.

The lady in the cheap-looking uniform takes our tickets. Studies them. Looks puzzled for a moment, but lets us by without saying a word. We follow the crowd out onto into the open air. The group splits into two as we approach the plane. We join those heading for the tail end. I rub my arms as we go. Try to warm them up. The overhead cloud is thick. The sky looks ready to burst. I can't believe that the weather's been so bad. If I'd wanted a holiday of rainstorms, it would have been a lot cheaper to just hang around in Preston.

The world closes in as we step into the plane. We shuffle down the aisle and I check the seat numbers. Peek at the passengers to make sure none of them is an ugly dwarf.

We get to our place. An old gentleman in a sleeveless white shirt, cream slacks and a Panama hat stands up to let us in. We squeeze past. I put my handbag on the floor and sit down. I lean my elbow on the window and watch the last of the cases being loaded into the hold.

"Thanks," I tell the old man who let us in. He lifts his hat, acknowledging me like a rusty cowboy.

Arturo puts on his seat belt. Checks the buckle on mine. "What use will these be if we fall out of the sky?" He's trying to make a joke out of it, but the look of concern still inhabits his face.

A young air steward reaches our row. His hair is gelled into tiny spikes that are dyed blond at the tips. He has dark rings under his eyes and the blue waistcoat does him no favours. He checks the lockers overhead. Closes ours. While he works, he eyes Arturo up and down. A pang of jealousy stabs at my stomach. Arturo's doesn't notice a thing. Just sits clutching the arm rest and tapping his feet.

A muffled announcement from the pilot welcomes us and tells us the weather in London is hotter than here. We'll be heading for take-off and we should ask any of the cabin crew if we need anything.

The doors slam shut. The steps are taken away and we set off for the runway. I throw Arturo a little smile and settle down to watch the aircraft safety routine.

Arturo watches intently. He mouths the words of the attendant. Checks every detail on the laminated sheet. Nods as they take us through the life jacket demonstration. Looks terrified at the prospect of having to brace. Pulls his safety belt that little bit tighter. Goes through it all again when it's over and returns the information sheet to the pocket.

"Better?" I ask.

He doesn't answer. Just pushes himself back into his seat.

I make to pull the blind over the window. "Would this help?"

"No." He puts his hand on my lap to get me to stop. "I want to see what's going on."

The man in the hat gives me a look of sympathy that tells me he understands. "My wife used to be exactly the same." His accent is old-fashioned BBC, all plummy and kind. "She used to get special medicine from our doctor. You might like to try it the next time you fly."

"Thanks," I tell him, but that's as far as I'm going. No point encouraging him or we'll have to listen to his life story for the next two hours. I pick up one of the in-flight magazine and pretend to be interested. Check out the offers on watches and headphones and flick through the pages to the confectionary section. There's not a bargain in sight.

Arturo grabs my arm. Points to something outside. "Look." I follow the line of his finger, but can't see anything. "Over by the fire engine."

Next to the truck in the distance, there's a small man hunched so that it looks like he's curled into a ball. On the ground beneath him, I can just make out the colours of his artwork.

"It's them." Arturo squeezes my arm hard.

I focus in. See the busy hand of the artist as he draws on the runway. My heart jumps off a cliff. Sinks into my belly and bounces back. Thoughts spiral around my head, winding tight into a kaleidoscope of questions.

The plane turns sharply. Comes to a halt. Brings into view a whole army of tiny artists spread across the landscape of the airport. Each scratches away at the ground like a hungry beast. "What's going on?"

I don't have to wait long for an answer. Barabbas appears some twenty metres from the plane. He's flexing his arms like a body builder and laughing so hard it looks like his head might roll off. "They're here for us, Arturo." Us and every other passenger on board. I can see the headlines now. _MINISTER'S DAUGHTER AMONG DEAD_. I think I'm going to be sick.

Arturo wriggles and tries to stand. The belt holds him in place. "Help me. We need to stop the plane." His words come quickly and practically stumble over themselves as they pour from his mouth. "We're going to crash. You're going to die."

The man next to us looks suddenly scared. Not of the imps who have come to take his soul, but of Arturo's insanity.

"Let me off." He's screaming now. "I need to get away." He tries to stand. The buckle holds him in place. Our steward leaps up and minces towards us like his limbs are made or rubber. He leans over the old man and grabs Arturo's wrists. Tells him to calm down. To breathe deep and slow.

I can't bear to watch. I look out of the window instead. Barabbas blows me a kiss and waves.

A rumble of thunder clatters above. A flash of lightning slashes the canvas of the sky. Around Barabbas, dark patches form on the tarmac. They spread like thousands of coins thrown from above. He holds out his palms. Looks upwards, his mouth open in disbelief. The heavens open and pour salvation onto the earth. Rain pelts the ground so hard it bounces up to Barabbas's knees. His black shirt sticks to his body as the weather drenches him. He stamps his feet. Dances madly on the spot like Rumplestitlskin.

The imp by the fire engine stands. His picture has disappeared, swamped like the rest of the world in a wash of purity. Everything is going to be just fine.

Something hard hits my ear. Reminds me of the battle at my side.

"It's all right Arturo." I reach out and stroke his face. "Look outside. The pictures have gone."

Arturo stops struggling. He blinks like he's coming out of a trance. The chaos is over.

The steward slackens his grip. Places Arturo's arms into his lap. "Can I get you a glass of water, sir?" Our host is as calm as you like.

"Or a gin, perhaps?" the old man chips in.

"Water's fine. I'm so sorry about freaking out like that."

"This your first time, darling?" The attendant flutters his eyelashes like a cabaret star and straightens out Arturo's shirt. "I shouldn't worry about it. I've seen much worse, believe me." He bounces off towards the cabin and puts a little extra swing into his hips.

When he returns, he unscrews the top from a plastic bottle and hands it over. "Little sips only." He smiles at Arturo. Scrunches his face up at me.

A beep announces a message from the captain. Saves us from any further embarrassment. "Cabin crew, prepare for take-off."

"Ooh, that'll be me. If you need anything, honey, just whistle."

Off he goes again, giving a wave over his shoulders on the way.

"Looks like you got lucky," the old man chuckles. He doesn't know the half of it.

The plane turns. Picks up speed. Arturo's face drains of colour. I take his hand and kiss his cheek. We accelerate hard. I surrender to the force and rest my head against the cushion. As we rise into the air, I look down upon Florence. The gloom casts itself over the city, but can't cover all the glitter. The big dome of my recent home stands out like a perfectly cut jewel. The river winds endlessly through the landscape. We soar into the clouds and the whole world disappears from view.

I turn to Arturo. "You okay?" I ask.

"Never better," he says. His grin is large and warm. Brightens my life like the rays of the sun.

I kiss him softly as I can. Rest my head on his shoulder. Close my eyes and let my mind drift towards home.

# About The Author

Nigel Bird was born in Liverpool in the sixties, grew up in Preston, Lancashire and migrated south to study in London. During that time, he enjoyed many of the cultural benefits of the city and qualified as a primary school teacher. Among other things, he lived for several years on a narrow boat on the Regent's canal.

He moved to Scotland at the end of 1999 in the hope that he could begin the new century with a clean slate. He currently lives in Dunbar, on Scotland's east coast, with his wife and three children.

Nigel has been writing for many years. He co-edited the Rue Bella magazine between 1998 and 2003 with his brother, Geoff. He has won a number of small prizes for his poetry and short fiction and hopes that his longer work will be equally well-received one day.

He is the author of a number of short-story collections, novellas and novels including Southsiders, Mr Suit, Smoke and Dirty Old Town.

As well as writing, he continues to teach and is currently a Support for Learning teacher in Tranent near Edinburgh.

If you would like to hear more about Nigel's work in the future, please just sign up to his email subscriber list here for occasional information about new titles and free downloads.

#  Acknowledgements

# I'd like to thank all my friends in the writing community for their continued support and all the readers who buy my stories. Particular thanks, as always, to Allan Guthrie for all his hard work on this particular project – one day I'll pay you back Al, I'm just not sure how.

a Sea Minor Publication

© 2016

