In The Hour Before Midnight aka The Sicilian Heritage

FOURTEEN

THAT FINAL HOUR on the lower slopes was worst of all for the sparse turf, soaked by the incessant rain, proved difficult to negotiate. I slipped and lost my balance twice, and once the donkey slid to one side, tearing his bridle from my grasp, bringing the heart into my mouth. For a moment it had seemed he would roll over and the result would have been catastrophic.

Joanna Truscott’s eyes were closed again and I presumed she had sunk back into unconsciousness. I got a grasp on the donkey’s bridle close to the muzzle and started down the next bank, holding his head up with what strength I had left, and willpower.

Time again ceased to exist, but now, I suspect, because I had become more than a little light-headed. We floundered down through mud and rain together, and once I was aware of someone pleading with the donkey, in the most reasonable of tones, to stand up like a man and keep going. And then the same voice broke into song again, the same faint trumpet call that had echoed from the Hoggar Mountains of the Southern Sahara to the swamps of Indo-China.

I seemed to sink into a well of darkness where nothing existed, only a tiny, flickering point of light at the end of a long tunnel, came out into it, blinking, and found myself hanging on to the bridle for dear life with both hands.

At what point I had unstrapped my right arm I don’t know. Only that I had used it – presumably had needed to – and that blood soaked through the field dressing.

It was beautiful – the most beautiful colour I had ever seen, vivid against the muted greens and browns of my camouflaged jump suit. The world was a wonderful, exquisite place, the blood mingling with the green and the grey rain falling.

Sheep poured over a bank top like a flood of dirty water and milled around me and beyond, a ragged shepherd stared, turned and ran along the track towards the village.

I passed the place where I had sat with Rosa, lain with her in a hollow in the sun. Lovely, lovely Rosa who had wanted to warn me, but who was too afraid – afraid of Karl Hoffer.

There was blood below my feet now, which was strange. I shook my head and the stain turned into a red Alfa Romeo in the yard behind Cerda’s place two hundred feet below. There was confused shouting, men running along the track towards me.

Once, as a boy, I fell from a tree at the Barbaccia villa and had lain unconscious for an hour until Marco had found me. He looked just the same now, not a day older which was surprising. The same expression, a mixture of anger and dismay and love. Strange after all those years.

I lay in the mud and he held me up against his knee. “All right – all right now, Stacey.”

I clutched at the front of his expensive sheepskin coat. “Hoffer, Marco – Hoffer and Burke. They’re mine. You tell Vito that. You tell the capo. This is mine – mine alone. My vendetta! My vendetta!”

I shouted the words out loud and the men of Bellona stood in a silent ring, faces like stone, the Furies in some Greek play awaiting the final bloody outcome with complete acceptance.

The cracks on the ceiling made an interesting pattern, rather like a map of Italy if you looked at it long enough, including the heel, but no Sicily.

Sicily. I closed my eyes, a hundred different things crowding into my mind. When I opened them again, Marco was standing by the bed, hands in the pockets of his magnificent sheepskin coat.

“That’s a beautiful coat,” I said.

He smiled, the kind of smile I’d known so often as a boy. “How do you feel?”

I was wrapped in a heavy grey blanket. When I opened it I found that I was still in my jump suit, that my shoulder had been rebandaged with what looked like strips of white linen torn from a sheet. I pushed hard and found myself on the edge of the bed, feet on the floor.

“Watch it,” Marco warned. “You’re lucky to be alive.”

“You’re wrong,” I replied. “Utterly and totally wrong. I’m indestructible. I’m going to live for ever.”

He wasn’t smiling now and when the door opened and Cerda came in quickly, I realised from the expression on his face that I must have shouted.

I saw that the Smith and Wesson was on a small bedside locker, reached for it and held it against my face. The metal was so cold it burned, or that was the sensation. I looked up into their troubled faces and smiled, or thought I did…

“Where is she?”

“In my bedroom,” Cerda replied.

I was on my feet and lurching through the door, pulling from Marco’s outstretched hand. Cerda was ahead of me by some strange alchemy, had the door open, and beyond, the dark, sad woman that was his wife turned from the bed in alarm.

The Honourable Joanna lay quite still, her face the colour of wax, another, cleaner bandage than mine around her head.

I turned to Marco. “What’s happening?”

“She’s not good, Stacey. I’ve spoken to the capo on the telephone. The nearest doctor is two hours away by road, but he’s been instructed to come.”

“She mustn’t die,” I said. “You do understand that?”

“Sure I do, Stacey.” He patted my arm. “There’s a private ambulance on the way from Palermo, two of the best doctors in Sicily on board. She’ll be all right, I’ve looked at her myself. It’s nasty, but it’s no death wound. You’ve nothing to worry about.”

“Except Hoffer,” I said. “He thinks she is dead. For him, it’s essential that she is.” I looked at him and nodded slowly. “But then you know about that, don’t you? All about it?”

He didn’t know what to say and tried to smile reassuringly. “Forget Hoffer, Stacey, the capo will deal with him. It’s all arranged.”

“How long for?” I demanded. “A week – a month? He used me, didn’t he, Marco? He used me like he uses you and everyone else?” I found that I was still holding the Smith and Wesson in my left hand and pushed it into the holster. “Not any longer. I settle with Hoffer personally.”

I turned and looked at the girl. If she was not dead she would be soon, or so I thought at the time. “We’ll go now,” I told Marco. “In the Alfa. Meet them on the way.”

He frowned. “No, better to wait, Stacey. A rough ride in the car after the rain. The surface will have gone on most of the mountain roads.”

“He’s right,” Cerda put in. “If the rain don’t stop soon there will be no roads left at all.”

“In which case the ambulance will never get up,” I pointed out patiently.

Cerda frowned and turned to Marco who shrugged helplessly. “Maybe he’s got a point.”

After that, everything happened in a hurry. They wrapped Joanna in blankets and carried her out to the Alfa in the courtyard, stuffed the well between the rear and front seats with more blankets and laid her across them. I sat in the passenger seat and Cerda leaned in to fasten my seat belt.

“You give my respects to the capo, eh?” he said. “Tell him I handled everything just like he told me.”

“Sure I will,” I said, leaned out of the window and called in English as we drove away. “Up the Mafia – right up!”

But I think the significance of that eloquent and ironic English phrase was completely lost on him.

I was right about the mountain roads and the heavy rain. To say that they dissolved behind our rear wheels may sound like something of an exaggeration, but it was not far from the truth.

I don’t suppose we topped twenty miles an hour on the way down; if we’d gone any faster we’d have plunged straight over the edge in places and the Alfa wasn’t built to fly.

Not that I was worried. There was a kind of inevitability to everything. The Sicilians are an ancient people and that side came uppermost in me now. Out of some strange foreknowledge, I knew the game was still in play, the climax yet to come. That was inevitable and could not be avoided. Neither by me nor Burke.

It also helped, of course, to remember that Marco, driving a car sponsored by my grandfather and certain business associates, had once come third in the Mila Miglia.

I closed my eyes and slept. When I opened them again, we were drawn up at the side of the main road beyond Vicari, as I discovered later, and I had lost two hours.

They were already carrying Joanna Truscott into the rear of the ambulance on a stretcher. I tried to get up and found that my legs refused to move and then the door opened and I lurched sideways into the arms of a grey-bearded man in a white coat.

I recall Marco vaguely somewhere in the background, but mainly my friend with the grey beard and the gold-rimmed spectacles. Surprising how respectable a doctor could look – even a Mafia doctor.

Joanna was laid out on the other side. I recall that, and the man leaning over her and then Greybeard loomed large again, the interior light shining on his spectacles, the syringe in his hand.

I tried to say no, tried to raise an arm, but nothing seemed to function any longer and then there was that darkness again – we were becoming old friends.