Angels of the Flood (4 page)

‘That was my favourite bowl.’ She picked up a handful of bits and a single tear splashed down on the back of her hand.

He stood up. ‘I’ll buy you another just like it,’ he said.

‘No. Ben and I bought it in Palermo,’ she said with a sigh, sitting back on her heels. ‘David, you don’t know what it’s like.’

‘It was my fault.’

‘No, it’s not the bowl.’ She wiped her eyes, then stood up. ‘It’s the pictures. I don’t know why they’ve upset me so much but… it’s like someone’s trying to get inside my brain. Why bring it all up again after so long? What do they want me to do?’

‘Who, Kate?’

‘Francesca.’

‘Francesca’s dead.’

‘I know. It doesn’t make any sense. And I can’t stop bloody thinking about it.’ She sniffed, then patted her pockets and smiled ruefully. ‘And I haven’t even got a sodding tissue.’ She reached onto the counter and tore off a square of kitchen paper, then blew her nose. David waited quietly. He was very close to her.

‘Kate?’

‘Yes?’

She stood immobile, swayed forward just a fraction, as he leaned towards her and touched her lips with his. A shudder ran through her body, a letting go. Maybe this was the solution; maybe this was the only way to escape the tension that was tearing her apart.

‘Don’t stop.’ She moved closer, put her arms around his neck and kissed him full on the mouth, then slipped her hands under the waist of his sweatshirt and touched the soft skin beneath. She smiled. ‘I’ve never made love to a man dressed all in pale blue before.’

‘You don’t know what you’ve been missing,’ said David huskily.

‘We can go upstairs if you like.’

But David was happy where they were. They kissed some more, then he cupped her buttocks in his hands, supporting her even as he pushed her back against the fridge. For a moment, Kate was confused by the speed at which the change had taken place between them. Was this the distraction she wanted? There was a brief fumbling, her fingers brushing against his as they struggled with zips and elastic, then his erection was hot against her hand and suddenly Kate found she was as aroused as David was. Outside, the rain had begun again, fierce summer rain, its drumming merging with the pulse beating in her ears, David’s quickened breathing and her gasp of pleasure as she allowed her mind to disengage, surrendering to the demands of touch and sensation. He began to move inside her, a flush of pleasure was spreading through her body, even while she registered the discomfort in her feet which were raised on tiptoe to match his height, and the unyielding surface of the fridge against her back and calves. And then, just at the moment when she felt herself sliding into that deep sea of sensation where words no longer have any meaning, a connection sparked in her brain, a flash of understanding, and she cried out in triumph, while waves of exultation radiated from her core to the tips of her fingers.

She held him a little longer until he came, her cheek resting against his shoulder. A new kind of energy was coursing through her.

She knew the answer to the puzzle.

She understood.

Kate flung her bedroom window wide. The rain had stopped but the air was still heavy with moisture. There was a smell of damp earth and vegetation, her little garden briefly transformed into a tropical jungle as it soaked up the wet. Traffic hummed in the distance. Somewhere, a siren whined: those distant, unknown tragedies that punctuate the London night.

‘My trousers haven’t dried yet.’ David appeared in the doorway.

‘You can stay the night,’ said Kate. ‘I’d offer you the spare room, but it’s a bit late for that. You’re a fast worker, Mr. Clay.’

‘Fast?’ He grinned. ‘I’ve only waited more than twenty-five years. Must be the slowest courtship in history.’

‘Well, if you put it like that.’

‘It’s like something out of one of those endless South American sagas.’

She smiled. Then: ‘No, don’t put on the light.’

‘Okay.’ David moved through the darkened room to stand beside her. Kate was filled with excitement. She was longing to tell him the revelation that had come to her while they were making love, had been wanting to tell him ever since, but she had a hunch his masculine ego would not appreciate discovering the main reason for her cry of triumph.

‘It’s strange, isn’t it,’ she said. ‘After so long.’

‘I suppose so.’

‘David.’ She couldn’t hold back any more. ‘I know why those details were added.’

‘You do? The rat and the bee?’

‘Not a rat and a bee.’

‘But—’

‘It’s a mouse and a wasp.’

‘How do you know that?’

‘Because Francesca was riding a Vespa when she was killed. And
vespa
in Italian means…’

‘What?’

‘A wasp.’

‘And the mouse?’

‘The car I was in, one of those little Fiats. They’re called Topolinos.’

‘Jesus. A
topolino
is little mouse.’

‘The little mouse eats the wasp. The Topolino destroys the Vespa.’

‘That’s sick. Ingenious, but still sick.’

‘Yes. Like they think Francesca’s death was some kind of a joke.’ She shivered. ‘It’s creepy.’ They stood for a few moments without speaking. Outside, as night filled the garden, the last blackbird abruptly stopped its song.

Eventually David said, ‘You’ll have to find out, you know.’

‘How?’

‘Visit the dealer?’

‘He’ll never tell me.’

‘Then go to the Villa Beatrice.’

‘I can’t.’

‘Why not?’

Kate turned to face him. In the semi-darkness it was easy to imagine David had hardly changed from the boy who’d been her companion during those far-off weeks in Florence. It was years since she’d been with anyone who’d known Francesca. Years since she’d trodden those particular walks of memory.

She said quietly, ‘I’ve never told anyone this before but… her mother blamed me for what happened.’

‘What? But that’s ridiculous. It was an accident, wasn’t it? And you weren’t even driving the car.’

‘Of course, it’s crazy. But her family
were
crazy, don’t you remember?’

‘I didn’t spend time with them like you did.’

‘And even Francesca was… well, different.’

‘Was she?’

‘But… I loved her, David. I really loved her. I’ve never told anyone that before, either, because no one knew her, no one would have known what I was talking about, but you did. I guess you always feel that way about people who die young, but Francesca was… well, special. And I owe her so much. Everything, really. I’d never have done any of this if it hadn’t been for Francesca. I’d probably have stayed a secretary and been miserable all my life. She made it seem possible. I feel I owe her.’

‘But she died, Kate. In an accident. And it wasn’t your fault.’

‘I know that. But… it’s so weird. A couple of nights ago I dreamed someone was locked in a dark room. They were trapped and frightened, and they were calling out to me, trying to get me to help them, but I ignored them. And when I woke up I was shattered; it felt as if I was turning my back on someone in trouble. I felt so… guilty, but I knew it was all connected with the pictures.’

‘What are you suggesting, Kate? You think those alterations are some kind of cry for help?’

‘It could be that.’

‘Or a trap. Some mad psycho who’s still obsessing about Francesca’s death.’

‘Yes, I know.’

David sighed. ‘Kate, I know you don’t want to go back there, but supposing I came with you? Wait, hear me out. My youngest daughter’s studying in Rome. I’ve been meaning to visit her for months. We could combine the two. And I’m nearly as curious as you are now. What do you think?’

Kate didn’t answer for a long time. Eventually she said, ‘I haven’t thought about it in years. And now I don’t seem to be able to stop. Do you remember the night we met Francesca?’

‘We’d been to that restaurant.’

‘No, we’d been to the consul’s party.’

‘Oh my God, I’d forgotten about those.’

‘It was on the way back.’

‘That’s right. She was on the bridge.’

‘Do you think she would have tried to kill herself?’

‘You never could tell with Francesca, could you?’

David slipped his arm round her waist and they looked out into the darkness in silence. Starting to remember.

F
LORENCE WAS A CITY OF
strange magic. The air was hazed with grey and there was a smell of damp plaster, sewage and mud—every kind of mud, mud everywhere. Mud ruled their lives: they worked in it by day and in the evenings they had to slither and slip through streets slicked with mud, coated with mud, treacherous with mud. Only a few cars ventured into the areas that had been worst affected by the flood and even pedestrians had to pick their way with care. There were potholes where the river had ripped up the cobbles, larger holes where pipes were in the process of being mended, rubble and muck heaped up and left in stinking piles on street corners. In some places beside the Arno whole chunks of river bank had been gouged away by the deluge and were still awaiting repair.

The city famous throughout the world as the cradle of western civilization had been brought to its knees by the bombardment of muck and filth, and in January 1967, two months after the devastation, its recovery remained uncertain. Florence, during those precarious winter months, was a city out of time.

In the evenings, its strangeness was intensified. The haze caused by evaporating mud seemed thicker at night and the street lights—those that were still working—bloomed fuzzy haloes against the dark. The pollution was so severe that nearly all the Florentines who’d been unable to escape from the city suffered from bronchial problems, but for the flood volunteers it was all part of the romance of the situation. Anna, who wrote poetry, described the streetlights as ‘dandelion clocks gone out of focus’.

It was Friday night, the second Friday since Kate had come to the city. She emerged from the hostel and she and half a dozen of her friends linked arms; together they laughed and skidded through the muddy streets towards the British Consulate. They’d worked hard in mud-filled cellars all week and now it was time to party. In honour of the occasion Kate had put on a clean pair of jeans and an embroidered peasant blouse, her favourite dangly earrings, lashings of mascara and ghostly pale lipstick. She felt good, really good, especially when she thought how horrified her parents would have been if they could glimpse her now. Mr and Mrs Holland’s plans for their seventeen-year-old daughter had gone no further than a safe secretarial job to keep her occupied until she got married. Universities were for clever boys, in their opinion; too much education for a girl put men off and only led to future unhappiness.

They would have been especially horrified if they’d known that Aiden, the young man with the long custard-coloured hair and the black cape who’d linked arms with Kate on her right, claimed to have worked as a pimp when he first arrived in London, or that the poetic Anna was rumoured to be a nymphomaniac, or that Don’s arms were pocked with scars from his heroin habit, or that handsome Gordon and gnomelike Mike had eyes only for each other. Kate wasn’t sure how much she believed of what anyone told her, but she did know that the sedate world she’d grown up in seemed wonderfully far away. In spite of the filth and the hard work and their primitive living conditions in the hostel, she was glowing with happiness. Ever since she could remember, the word ‘grown-up’ had been synonymous with responsibility and seriousness, yet here she was, fresh out of school and without a care in the world. She was free. Life was an adventure.

‘Look, there’s that girl again.’

Kate had noticed the stranger earlier, when she was walking back to the hostel after work. There was something about the solitary figure that drew the attention, even in this city of misfits and foreigners.

Tall and well-groomed, she was much too elegant to be one of the flood volunteers. Her tumble of light brown hair was caught up in a pair of tortoiseshell combs and the velvet collar of her coat was turned up against the raw night air. She wore black leather gloves and her black patent-leather bag matched her shoes. But one of the combs was slipping, a mass of hair drooped over the side of her face, and her shoes were caked with mud, dismal grey mud that spattered her stockinged legs. She was walking slowly towards them. Eyes to the ground, the unknown young woman was in a world of her own—and it didn’t look like a happy world either.

Instinctively, the gaggle of volunteers slowed down, breaking the chain to let her through.

Kate’s happiness that evening was the kind that wants even strangers to share her good fortune.
‘Buona notte,’
she said, but the girl didn’t acknowledge the greeting and stepped between them like a sleepwalker.

‘Stuck-up cow,’ said Don.

‘Good legs, though,’ said Aiden.

A faint aroma of expensive perfume lingered after she’d passed. Kate turned and watched her as she walked away. At the end of the street the stranger hesitated, as though uncertain whether to go towards the Piazza Signoria or over the bridge. Kate had a sudden urge to invite her to join them, but didn’t want to risk a second rejection.

Don suggested a speedy remedy for such prissy-looking solitary females, and everyone laughed. Aiden linked his arm through Kate’s again and they continued on their way to the party and forgot all about the elegant stranger.

Lungarno Corsini Due, the building which housed the British Consulate, fronted onto the Arno and had therefore borne the full brunt of the flood’s impact. The road outside was still impassable to cars. In fact, it looked as though a large bite had been taken out of it by the river, and the wrecked section was roped off.

But once they climbed the stairs to the first floor the volunteers entered another world. There was an awesome array of drinks, canapés on huge platters borne round by uniformed staff and three sorts of cigarettes in silver cases scattered around the room. And on top of that, the other guests seem to have been invited for the sole purpose of telling the volunteers how heroic they were.

‘Stand in front of me, will you, Kate,’ said Don, who was already emptying the contents of one cigarette case into his pocket.