Viper

27

Campeggio Castellani, Pompeii The black waterproof anorak and trousers that Franco Castellani wore for garbage collection helped him disappear into the rainy darkness of the night. He slid from shadow to shadow around the campsite, checking on the safety of the guests. Or, at least, that's what he told his grandfather he did. For years he'd been prowling. Feeding on any flash of naked female flesh that he could find. Summer was best. Many young couples came to the site to be alone and he'd often see them lost in their lovemaking. He longed for the same. Ached for the sensation of sex. The mysterious closeness he'd witnessed.

In the past, Paolo had brought him hookers. The first had been his age, maybe even younger. She'd fled as soon as she'd got a good look at him. The second had been in her forties. As old and cold as his runaway mother. She was drunk and ridiculed him. Laughed at his withered face, his buck teeth and birdlike body. Asked if Bird Boy had got a worm for a cock? He'd have killed her if Paolo hadn't stopped him. At times like that – times like now – he felt more dead than alive.

Franco was poor and he was ill, but he wasn't stupid. He understood much of what the doctors had told him. Werner Syndrome was a rare and cruel disorder caused by missing proteins and damaged genes. It made him look old – very old – long before he should. It was responsible for him being smaller than most kids at school, but it hadn't really kicked in and done its terrible damage until he'd reached puberty. Then it had turned his body to Plasticine. Reshaped him in its own terrible way. His hair was already greying and thinning. His hands were becoming clawlike and mottled. The sickness would only get worse with age and would soon make him vulnerable to a range of cancers, heart disease and diabetes. Doctors wanted to carry out regular checks and tests on him, but he shunned them. The worse it got, the less care he took of himself. The more he needed to stay warm and infection free, the more he desired to wander in the freezing rain.

Tonight the downpour was so cold it made his face burn. Through the gap in the curtain of a caravan that people had just moved into, he saw the most beautiful woman in the world. Her hair was damp from the shower and she wore a white towelling robe. Franco slid back and felt his heart pound. From inside the van he heard someone shout her name. 'Rosa. Rosa, your dinner is ready.'

Rosa.

Franco spoke her name in the dark, cold wetness of the night. Rosa. His breath smoked white in the light from her window. Rosa. Even saying her name excited him.

His thoughts ran wild.

Rosa.

He knew exactly what he wanted to do to her. And he could barely wait for the chance to do it.