See Naples and Die (3 page)

The afternoon flight from Naples to
Liverpool was making its descent. It was thirty minutes late, which wasn’t too
bad, and overall it had been a good journey.

The plane touched down, and everyone
trooped off to the carousel to reclaim their luggage. Chrissie, Brenda, and
Megan took their place at the worst show in town, and watched the assorted
baggage on its revolving stage. Every colour and shape of suitcase went round
and round and round. Eventually, with luggage retrieved, the girls made their
way to the arrival area. They were to meet their arranged taxi driver outside
by the entrance to car park number 2, and were heading towards the exit when
Megan touched Chrissie’s arm and motioned with her head. Chrissie followed
Megan’s gaze, and saw a young man holding up a large piece of card saying,
‘Chrissie McGuire’. The girls changed direction and walked towards the man with
the sign.

“Hiya,” said Chrissie.

“Ciao, beautiful ladies. You are
Chrissie McGuire?”

“The one and only,” replied Chrissie.

“Another Italian … that’s a coincidence,”
thought Megan.

“The car is this way,” said the Italian,
and walked quickly towards the exit.

They all followed, and outside was a
slightly beaten-up Mondeo estate. They were all thinking the same … “What a
shit taxi
– but so what? Let’s just get home.”

It was a bit of a struggle to fit the
suitcases in and Brenda and Megan, who were sitting in the back, had to have
all the hand luggage on their knees. Chrissie sat with the driver, who
introduced himself as Salvatore.

Salvatore pointed at the airport’s name.
“John Lennon: very good … The Beatles: great.” Chrissie and Brenda had switched
off and weren’t even listening, but Megan thought it strange that a taxi driver
would make that reference. It was as if the airport was new to Salvatore.

On leaving the perimeter they turned
left towards the city centre. The girls closed their eyes and tried to relax,
but Salvatore was a chatty guy. “You have been on the cruise, yes?”

“That’s right,” replied Megan, trying
her best to sound polite.

“What did you think of Naples?” he
enquired.

“Loved it,” said Chrissie, with eyes
still closed.

“Did anything unusual happen when you
were there?”

“Like what?” asked Megan.

“I don’t know,” said Salvatore. “Anything
out of the ordinary?”

“Factory workers were lying down in the
road and stopping traffic,” said Megan.

“Oh … they do that,” said Salvatore, and
then seemed to concentrate on the road signs.

They drove the next three miles with
their driver looking ever more anxious
– and then, at the end
of Aigburth Road, Salvatore carried on to Toxteth. Even Chrissie was taking
notice now.

“Wouldn’t it have been better to have
done a right there?”

Salvatore slapped his forehead. “I keep
doing that,” he said, and slapped his forehead again, as if chastising himself
for being so foolish.

After a moment of silence Salvatore
said, “To be honest, I am new to driving in Liverpool. It’s probably best if
you direct me to your address.”

This was followed by another moment of
awkward silence, broken when Chrissie said sternly, “You’re not a taxi driver
at all, are you?”

“Well … sort of,” stuttered Salvatore.

“What do you mean, ‘Sort of’? Either you
are or you’re not,” said Chrissie, now beginning to get wound up.

“Well, I’m here to drive you home,” said
Salvatore. “That’s sort of like a taxi driver.”

“No, it isn’t,” said Chrissie, now fully
wound up. “Who the hell are you? And why did you have a sign with my name on
it? Now you talk or I’ll punch you so hard you’ll wake up with John bloody
Lennon.”

“Maybe we should stop the car first,”
said Brenda.

“I think that is a good idea,” agreed
the flustered Italian, and drew the car to a halt, leaving the engine running.
He unclipped his seatbelt and turned to face the girls. Three angry faces
stared back at him, with Chrissie the angriest of all.

“Okay,” said Salvatore, with his hands
held up as if the girls had a gun pointing at him. “This is all going to sound
very crazy. It’s a strange story and hard to explain, but I will try.” He
cleared his throat. “I have a cousin in Italy. His name is Fabio, and he saw
you in the market in Naples. He had a USB data stick
–
you know, the memory sticks? This contained very important information … and he
dropped it into your bag, Miss Chrissie McGuire. You had written your name and
address, and he remembered it. He knew you would be from the cruise ship, so he
contacted me – I live in London – to intercept you at the airport. Is that what
you say … intercept?”

“Yes, that’s correct, Salvatore,” said
Megan, as if this was a language class.

“Never mind that,” said Chrissie, now
only a few degrees below full-blown rage. “Why did he have to get shut of this
memory thing so quickly? And why me?”

“There were people in the market looking
for him … bad people. And you just happened to be there. He had no other
choice,” said Salvatore, putting his hands up again.

“He could have stuck it up his arse,”
shouted Chrissie.

“No …” said Salvatore, with an
expression that portrayed discomfort. “That is where they looked first.”

“Who are they?” asked Brenda.

“You said they were bad people,” added
Megan.

“The main thing is,” said Salvatore, “that
you still have the USB. If you have, then we can all make a lot of money.”

“You still haven’t explained who these
bad people are,” persisted Megan.

“We are making a movie,” replied
Salvatore. “It is a great story and people want to steal it from us.”

“So that’s what’s on the memory stick …?
The story?

“No,” said Salvatore. “We have to raise
money to finance the movie. A lot of money. The information is a list of people
who have been contacted and would like to invest. With this backing we can
produce the film, but also our rivals would like this list so that they can
raise the money first. If they get these investors on their side we will have
to sell them the rights to the story … for a few olives.”

“For peanuts,” said Brenda. “In England
we say ‘For peanuts’.”

Salvatore took a few moments to digest
this, and then nodded. “Yes: for a few peanuts and olives.” He smiled. He could
see they were mellowing.

“So,” said Chrissie. “We give you this
memory stick, and then what? You give us a fiver apiece and say ‘Thank you’?”

“No,” cried Salvatore. “You are now part
of our production team
– a very important part. It was always a
bit of a problem that it was down to me and Fabio to meet with these people.
They are very important contacts, and I have my limitations. I will set up the
meetings and you can do the negotiating. Italian men like to deal with
beautiful women. Also, the fact you are English will give us a global face. We
will appear to be serious players. It gives everything a higher profile.”

“And what’s in it for us?” asked
Chrissie.

“When money changes hands you will
receive 5 per cent of that investment. You will be named as co-producers of the
film, with full title credits and a percentage of profits. When we premiere you
will be guests of honour.”

“We’re in,” said Chrissie.

“Hold on a minute,” said Brenda. “We get
hijacked by some nobody Italian, who comes out with the most absurd rubbish
I’ve ever heard
– and who wants us to get involved in
what’s probably some scam. We need to check this out. We need to check you out,
Salvatore, or whatever your real name is. No. We’ll get back to you. Call us
next week … Now drive us home.”

Salvatore looked at the floor.

“Now what?” asked Brenda.

Salvatore sighed and looked up. “When
Fabio was captured he was put under a lot of pressure. They wanted to know
where the USB was, and eventually he had to tell the truth. One of their men is
part of our side, and he let us know about Chrissie McGuire. So then we found
out that you had the lists, but so did our enemies. If I’m in Liverpool … then
so are they. I suppose they could be waiting at your address.”

“Then we go there. We give them this
memory stick, and to hell with you and Fabio and your so-called film-producing,”
said Brenda, sharply.

“It’s up to you,” replied Salvatore. “But
they will give you nothing, whereas we are offering you a piece of the whole
thing. It is incredible. But if you are with us, then you cannot talk to our
enemies. We must go, right now, to London. You will be guests of my family, and
we will make plans. You will become rich. You will meet film stars and many
famous people. Your lives will change forever.”

“I know what you’re thinking, Chrissie,”
said Brenda. “But just look at it sensibly. We meet this clown
–
who offers us fame and fortune – and ten minutes later we’re letting him take
us to God knows where, with nothing but a car full of dirty holiday clothes and
some ridiculous promise of becoming film producers. It’s laughable.”

“You know I can’t think sensibly,
Brenda,” replied Chrissie.

“Oh, you’re hopeless,” said an
exasperated Brenda. “What do you think, Megan?”

Megan was quite calm. “What were we
coming home to? Our money has almost run out, and it was down to the job centre
on Monday with very little to look forward to. I’m with Chrissie. These random
events are what we are all about. Remember … power to the sisters.”

Brenda was far from convinced. “How do
we even know there is a USB stick?”

“Well, let’s find out,” said Chrissie,
and got out of the car and opened up the tailgate. She dragged out her suitcase
and opened it up, right in the middle of the pavement. She searched below a
selection of assorted tops and shorts and pulled out the beach bag. She felt
inside, and then produced a red USB data stick. She closed the suitcase and
bundled it back into the estate car. She jumped into the passenger seat and
held up the USB.

“Well, at least this bit’s true,” she
said.

Brenda grabbed the USB and put it into
the zip compartment of her handbag. “I’m hanging on to this. It could be that
as soon as they get their hands on it then we are surplus to requirements. So
at the first sign of trouble I’ll make sure it gets damaged beyond repair. You
hear that, Salvatore?”

“Yes, miss. I understand. But I promise
you will not be harmed. In two days we will begin to meet with the investors
and you will see everything coming together.”

“So are we all agreed?” asked Chrissie.

“Yes, okay,” replied Brenda and Megan
together, and then a second later Salvatore also agreed. Brenda shot him a
withering glance and he looked apologetic.

“London, here we come,” shouted
Chrissie.

“One moment, please,” said Salvatore. “I
need to call my uncle so that he can prepare for your arrival.” Salvatore
called a number on his phone but it didn’t ring. “I need a better signal,” he
said, and got out of the car. He walked a few yards up the street and tried
again, and this time the girls could see he was talking to someone. He moved
sideways so they couldn’t see his lips, and he spoke softly into the phone.

“Yes, Uncle, I can’t believe it. They
fell for the movie story. I know you said it would work … I know. Yes … yes,
that is why you are the boss. Okay, we are leaving now. See you later.”

Salvatore ran back to the car, and once
inside he turned to face the girls. “My uncle is very excited. He says the
movie is going to make us all millionaires, and that you are the key to
everything.”

He smiled and drew the Mondeo away from
the kerb, slipped into second gear, and swung a sharp U-turn. Then they were
speeding away from the city of Liverpool, away from home turf and the security
of friends and family. Now it was just the three of them … once more hurtling
into the unknown.

There had been three separate accidents
on the M1 south, each closing two lanes and causing miles of standing traffic.
Salvatore had decided to detour via the A14, Cambridge, and the M11. That
hadn’t been much of a better journey but at least they had kept moving, and
eventually they were nearing the end of the M11. Speed cameras restricting them
to 50 mph were slowing them down, and the signs were now belonging to London.

Brenda glanced out of the window as they
passed the North Circular east and west turnings. She gave an apprehensive
shudder, but not because of the dangers that may lie ahead. This was London,
and it always had that effect on her. It was big and impersonal. Parts of it
were thrilling and exciting, but mostly it gave Brenda the heebie-jeebies.

Chrissie loved the hustle and bustle,
and to Megan it was like coming back. From the age of five she was brought up
in Bethnal Green. It hadn’t been a particularly happy childhood, and her first
school just off the Mile End Road had felt like a penal sentence, but as she
grew and became more accepted the East End did become home
–
for a while.

They followed the Docklands signs until
the A13 and then continued towards the city. When they reached the Blackwall
Tunnel interchanges they turned right. After a short distance Chrissie saw the
sign for Tower Hamlets Town Hall where they turned into a series of one-way
streets, eventually entering a back alley.

Halfway down the alley Salvatore stopped
outside two huge solid metal doors. He rang his mobile and waited. Almost
immediately the doors opened to reveal a car parking area. There were two cars
and a van positioned there already, but there was still easily enough room for
the Mondeo. Salvatore parked against a wall adorned with creeping ivy, and the
gates automatically closed behind them.

The girls got out of the car and
stretched. It had been a long day. It was only this morning they were boarding
a plane in Naples
– and now, nine hours later, via
Liverpool and half the nation’s motorways – they were in what appeared to be a
fortress in the middle of the East End of London. It was dark and the
surrounding walls and metal gates seemed to envelope them. With no way out, and
at the mercy of whoever controlled this place, they were now regretting this
decision to come south. This was a stupid idea. Definitely the most stupid
thing they had ever done.

The lights came on at the back of the
house, and a door at the top of a flight of stone steps burst open. Even
Chrissie closed her eyes, waiting for the inevitable. There was the sound of
footsteps running towards them, and Chrissie felt hands gripping her upper arms.
She opened her eyes and there, standing before her, was the most genial little
man imaginable. His bald head shone like a beacon in the night and his snow-white,
immaculately groomed moustache topped a row of equally white teeth.

“Hello, Uncle,” said Salvatore.

The man ignored him. “You poor girls,”
he said. You must be weary. You need to sit … and eat. Mama has supper ready,
and we will make coffee. Salvatore, bring in the bags. Please … follow me … follow
me.”

He ushered the girls up the steps. Before
them was a long corridor, decorated with thick red wallpaper and lined with
several wall lights with coloured glass shades. It was like the entrance to a
brothel, and once again they had grave reservations. Uncle squeezed past them
and went to open the door at the end of the corridor. It felt like the crazy
house on Blackpool Pleasure Beach, none of it seeming real and all of it
seeming wrong, but they kept going.

Uncle opened the door, and went directly
into a large room with beautiful furniture and exquisite decor. It was perhaps
a little too fussy, in that old-fashioned Italian sort of way, but there was no
doubting it: it was all quality.

“Please, be seated,” said Uncle. “I will
see how Mama is doing.” and he scampered off into another room.

“What do you think?” asked Chrissie.

“It’s too early to say,” replied Megan.

Brenda simply shook her head. “I’m too
tired to take it in.”

A noise from the corridor like an
oncoming Tube train on the Central line heralded the entrance of Salvatore and
two large suitcases. He placed them in the corner then trooped off again,
muttering to himself. The girls looked at each other and smiled. They sat down
and began to relax. After a few moments Salvatore returned with the final
pieces of luggage.

“Hey, Salvatore,” whispered Chrissie
“What’s your uncle’s name? We can’t keep calling him Uncle, can we?”

“Well, actually everyone does call him Uncle,”
said Salvatore, “but his name is Luigi.”

Chrissie was about to reply when Luigi
came in hand in hand with an elderly lady with a perfectly round body.

“Ciao,” said the lady.

“Ciao,” they replied.

Luigi stood to attention and addressed
the girls very formally. “I am Luigi and this is my wife of forty-two years,
Mama.”

Mama took a bow.

“This is my nephew, Salvatore.” Luigi
waved his hand as if presenting Salvatore at court. “I know you have already
met the boy, but don’t let that affect your judgement. I promise he does grow
on you.”

“And he’s single, by the way,” said Mama.

Salvatore looked uncomfortable, and
Luigi laughed.

Mama threw her hands up in a sign of
mock frustration and then turned to the girls.

“Please take your seats, and I will
serve supper.”

Luigi led them to a long mahogany
hardwood table at the back of the room. This was a family table. This table had
seen a thousand get-togethers and been host to more meals than the breakfast
bar at Euston Station. It was already set with plates, cutlery
–
and, of course, wine glasses. Two bottles of red and two bottles of white sat
like the Household Cavalry around the huge place mat in the centre of the
table.

The smell of fresh cooking drifted
through the open door and the girls realised how ravenous they were. They
wanted a good hearty meal, and they were not to be disappointed. Mama didn’t do
starters. She carried in the biggest casserole dish any of them had ever seen
and sat it on the place mat. She lifted the lid and steam rose like autumn
mist. Mama served them all with a mountain of
pollo al forno
, then
hurried off to bring in a tower of garlic bread.

“Enjoy,” said Luigi. And they did.

After the meal, the four bottles of
wine, and a wonderful choca mocha dessert, they retired back to the comfort of
the living room chairs. They had talked and laughed over dinner. Italian
hospitality does create an ambience and a feel-good factor, and they had
readily fallen into the mood.

No one wanted to disrupt this feeling
but someone had to, and eventually Chrissie asked the question. “That was a
lovely meal, Luigi, but you need to tell us what happens next. How are we to
know that all this is for real?”

“Things are going to happen very
quickly,” said Luigi. “In two days from now we should have three meetings
arranged. I will brief you on the people you will be seeing, and then it’s up
to you. You do the negotiations. Everything should be very straightforward.
These people are coming to give you money. They want to invest. You will see
how easy it is, and later you will see the movie begin. We need to take this
day by day. You have two days’ rest, and then it begins … Now the USB, please,”
and he held out his hand. “You need to give me the data, and I can then make
some calls …”

Brenda looked into his eyes and tried to
read them but all she got was a scene from
Forrest Gump
: all innocence
and sincerity.

Chrissie intervened. “Oh … give it to
him, Bren. We’re here now, so we may as well roll with it.”

Brenda tried once more to look into
Luigi’s soul and then, realising she was squinting and probably looking
ridiculous, picked up her handbag and took out the USB. She handed it to Luigi,
who grasped it like it was the key to the gates of heaven.

“I shall start tonight,” he said. “I
will decide which contacts you shall meet first, and I will arrange everything.
They will be the ones most interested. They will come to you with open arms.”

Still grasping the USB, he hurried from
the room.

Salvatore smiled. “Come, I will show you
to your rooms.”

The hearty meal and the wine had taken
effect, and the flight of stairs seemed like the north face of the Eiger. They
washed and changed into the cleanest of their holiday leftovers and fell into
bed. They were weary, and sleep was calling. They let their minds and bodies
follow the piper’s tune to soothing relief, knowing that sleep is good … as
long as you wake up in the morning.