Chapter 7

Chapter 7 - Performance

Nick Commons spent the duration of the flight on his blackberry, adjusting his facebook page. Working for the MoD did not automatically mean he couldn’t maintain one, quite the opposite. Agents in the field were encouraged to seem as normal as possible. Commons knew he looked the part: his suit he’d ordered from a website recommended in GQ; he’d known instinctively that the cufflinks were a vulgar addition. Get your style kit out Nick, his boss had said- you’re going to Italy. Style, Nick felt, was something you carried in your head. The boss himself hadn’t a clue.
Nick had completed a degree in Politics and Italian at Cambridge. First class honours. His parents had both worked for the British Council and Nick himself had spent his childhood in first St Petersburg and then Rome before going to St Paul’s to finish his education in London. He had always excelled at passing exams, was well muscled and an accomplished rugby player. After University it was the natural thing for him to apply to the MoD. He lived in his parents flat in London until he could afford his own place. He had a girlfriend, Lucia, who was half Italian and worked for a PR firm. On a typical evening out they ate at a restaurant recommended in one of the Sunday supplements, then went to the cinema on Regents Road. Not that either of them had much leisure time. For their ample salaries, both had to put in long hours, and of course there was travel involved. Sometimes they didn’t see each other for a week or even ten days. But they both reflected that this was probably a good thing. For one thing the sex was still electric. They were magnetized by the force of each other’s bodies, carried by the undercurrents of the great city on whose waves they soared.
At the airport at Capodichino Nick was picked up by the Embassy merc. As they drove in to the centre of Napoli he chatted to the driver, Johnny Salisbury. Salisbury, he’d been informed, was an old hand in Italy and ‘knew everything about the country’, as he was proving by telling Nick ‘they’d fucked up again’.
'They always do don’t they.'
'Oh yes. You can’t beat Italy for laughs.'
'So do you miss the Cavalier?'
'Don’t worry old son, he’ll be back. Merry go round isn’t it, Italian politics. Just like children. Stop the ride, change direction, climb on again. Back home you expect them at least to be pushing more or less the same levers. Here they all fight their own daft little corners, and whoah, what a surprise, absolutely nothing gets done.'
'Not since Mussolini.'
'Ha, ha, don’t let anyone hear you saying that. We’ll be accused of plotting a fascist coup.'
'You’re not being tapped are you?'
'Oh God the Yanks can probably hear every word we’re saying. You want to see the satellite gubbins they’ve got out at their base. Jesus- I bet they could take this merc out with one flick of a switch if they fancied.'
Nick smiled to himself and pretended to look out the passenger seat window. Salisbury was a typical old stager. Full of bluster – way out of the loop – left with his assumptions. He probably read Graham Greene novels and listened to World Service.
'Where am I meeting them?'
'Sorry?' Salisbury was busy chuckling to himself at the driving standards.
'I’m supposed to be meeting my Italian counterpart tonight.'
'Oh. Really? First I heard. And what is your job exactly? Just kidding. Yes, yes…' He tailed off vaguely as a pair of motorbikes whizzed by in the poorly lit street. 'Security of course, is not an area the Italians like to discuss with us.'
'Oh, I don’t know about that. I’ve had a fairly frank exchange of e-mails with their top man-'
'Frank?' Salisbury sucked in his breath. 'In that case he must be a fascist.'
Commons could feel himself losing patience.
'I’ll page him myself.' He took out his blackberry and scrolled through the contact list.
'Please yourself. But you’d be better waiting til we get to the Embassy. Someone there’ll know the guy you’re looking for.'
'Unfortunately Security service business isn’t a matter for public consumption. As far as I’m aware, you were designated to set up a meeting for me.'
'Do you think it’s my fault if they’re not willing to go through me?'
'As I said, I’ll do it myself.'
They drove the rest of the way in silence, until the merc rolled to a halt outside the Embassy building in one of the city’s most exclusive shopping streets. Salisbury and Commons both slammed their doors as they got out.

'Stop.'
Mina braked so sharply that the cds on her dashboard jumped forward and then bounced back on to the floor.
'Thanks for the warning.'
'Pavarotti's not bad, but you wanna get some Fela Kuti on you stereo.'
Ignoring him Mina pulled the Fiat in next to the wall – there was no pavement, just dusty ground scattered with the odd piece of rubbish.
'Where is it?
'You go down there a little'. He pointed to an opening in the wall where a disused looking road led to some warehouses. On one side of the lane were more market gardens. On the other, an area of wasteground where construction machinery lay idle, a sight so emblematic of Southern Italy the tourist boards should put it on postcards. 'Behind that is Ercolano.' Ransom indicated the other side of the wasteground where a mini cliff rose up with houses on top - 'that’s where I ran when they came lookin’ for me. Across there – with it all open and bare and I was sure they were gonna shoot me but they must have thought they could catch me cos they were on bikes. But I reached the other side and scrambled up – don’t look like you can from here but actual fact there are plenty tree roots for hold onto. An’ then I got lucky, there’s a hole in the fence – and suddenly chickens are going mad all around me clucking and squawking – sure left a trail alright – other side the houses look right down onto the ruins, it's not difficult to jump fence and get in. I thought I could lose them ok once I got in amongst the tunnels but those boys were like dogs with bones and Ransome had to dive not knowing if that would be the end of him. Lucky thing I come up not too far from yours truly.'
'And the rest is history.'
'You sure you wanna do this?'
'That’s the tree isn’t it?' In the corner of the scrub patch nearest the warehouse, a solitary Mediterranean pine stood. From where they were, looking through the car’s dirt spattered windscreen, the sun was hanging just behind the tree’s outline.
'Exactly.'
'Ok, you wait here.'
'Be careful.'
'Don’t go for a joyride.'
Mina walked down the road deliberately slowly, stopping every so often to survey the view. She had the natural cover of tourism if anyone asked what she was doing: looking for the scavi, taken a wrong turning- that couldn’t fail. Ahead of her she could see a van pulled up in front of the warehouse. Ransome had told her she might see one or two of the other Africans sitting out in the yard, though almost certainly at this time they would be out on the street trying to sell. The presence of the van was unexpected. It was facing towards her and as she drew closer she saw there was a man in the front seat. He must have spotted her, and now it was too late to turn back without looking unnatural. She steeled herself and walked brazenly up to the window, smiling at the man who glowered down at her.
'Scusi, si puo andare.' She let her English accent show.
He continued to stare at her, then launched into an anti-tourist diatribe in thick dialect, of which she understood about half. She went through the options in her head. If she retraced her steps, she was still no nearer getting to the tree. Unless… she dug her wallet out and, yes, there it was, her old student card still intact. She showed him it, and started spinning the story, rediscovering the gift she had possessed since she was a child. She wished she had worn more revealing clothing – as it was she only had her eyelashes to assist – but even so she could tell he was listening. It was just unlikely enough to be plausible, an inter-university research project to survey ecological damage in the bay of Naples... they needed to sample different natural environments at various distances from the shore. She felt herself believing her own story, the sign of the best lies. When she asked him exactly how far they were from the shore and his brow started furrowing in calculation she knew she was on the way to convincing him. A slow smile was spreading across his unshaven jowls.
'Femmene, ciucce e crape teneno 'e stessi ccape!'. The fact that she’d stimulated him to one of the proverbs of his city – put her in his favour. What harm was she doing, measuring trees? All you seemed to hear about these days were deaths. Just that Sunday, Ciccio Pannone had been shot outside the church after his daughter’s wedding. Ercolano was getting more dangerous each day as the clan wars spread. Even this job he was doing, whatever it was about, Genco Della Sabbia would have to line himself up with one side or another. There was no stability any more – if only he could be paid for measuring trees…
He escorted the woman down to the corner of the yard and watched her as she advanced towards the pine – a fine old plant it was too – funny that it hadn’t been chopped down. She was lucky to get in now, with her measuring tools, except she didn’t seem to have any…
Oh crap, how could she make him stop watching her? What a ludicrous idea anyway, ecological research, here… Nico would have laughed. She put her hand out and touched the bark, making a show of examining it close up. Then she crouched down and, feeling absurd, tried to embrace the trunk. She could feel his eyes boring down on her
'Too wide'. She turned and smiled. He narrowed his eyes. She stood again and walked round to the other side, in the shadow of the wall. Immediately she saw the hollow, and, in the near darkness, something white. She reached in and grabbed it, making sure nothing fell out. The bag was quite light – she risked a glance inside and saw the pouches tied together with elastic bands. Too big to go in her pockets – how could she get them away? If only she’d thought to wear her jacket then she could have stuffed it inside. But she only had her shirt and jeans on. He was coming closer, footsteps on the gravel. She stuffed the bag back in and came out in front of the tree again, gazing up into the branches.
'Do you see those markings?'
She was desperate to stop him going round the back.
'Where?'
'Look, up on the trunk above the first branches.'
'Oh yes, I see them.'
God, just her luck. A gang member who was interested in botany. She racked her brain for an idea.
'They are, er, evidence of owls.'
'My son likes owls.'
'Really.'
The conversation was becoming strained. She had a brainwave.
'Could I borrow a light?'
'Do you smoke?'
'It’s for a test.' Her heart was beating fast now.
'Wait.' He tramped back up the slope towards the yard where the van was parked. Bingo. Mina had a chance. She tore the bag out again and tipped the disc pouches onto the ground. There were two stacks of about fifteen bound lengthways. She took the band off one of the stacks and started stuffing the pouches down her left trouserleg until they were all inside. Then she did the same with the other. She heard a door slam. He was coming back. She rose to her feet and three pouches promptly slipped out onto the ground. She pulled her socks up over the bottoms of her jeans and rammed the last ones back inside just as he came round the gate post. The carrier bag floated towards him and he kicked it out the way as he covered the last steps and offered her the lighter.
'For your experiment.'
'Grazie.'
What to do now? She looked up again into the branches.
'Can you break me off a branch please. I want to see how well it burns.'
He looked at her and she could feel his suspicion.
'It’s the quickest way to test how dry the wood is.'
'It's dry.' He said simply. And clearly it was. There had been no rain all through September. She played her last card.
'Polluted wood won’t burn. If it burns well, the wood is healthy.'
He shook his head, as though to dismiss her as mentally retarded.
'Please.'
He shrugged, stepped forward and reaching up, snapped off one of the thinnest pine branches and placed it down in front of her. She picked up the old newspaper that she’d spotted on the ground, and ripped out some pages. She made a little pile underneath and around the branch, conscious of him watching her all the time. Finally she lit the papers. They burst into flame. She stepped back, aware there was no way the fire would last long enough to allow the branch to catch. Sure enough, soon the pages wrinkled in on themselves and the flame died, with the wood barely blackened.
'That’s not how you make a fire.'
She nodded, trying to look as naive as she could.
'You need some petrol.'
She froze. Not three feet away from them on the dusty ground lay one of the DVDs, the recent Hollywood version of Spiderman. He followed the direction of her eyes.
'What’s this?' He bent down and picked up the disc, examined it, and stared at her again. 'Is this yours?'
'No.' She feigned unconcern. 'Look, don’t worry about the petrol. I need to come back with more research equipment.'
'Which University did you say you’re from?'
'Glasgow. But this project is an international collaboration.'
He had extracted the disc from its pouch and was spinning it round his sausage-like finger.
'Why did you come here?'
'Napoli is…an area of ecological concern.'
'I don’t mean to Napoli. I mean right here.'
'I saw that tree and -'
'Do you know him? He pulled out a sheet of paper from his pocket and unfolded it. She could tell from the shirt that the photo was of Ransome.
'No. Should I?'
He looked her body up and down. The jeans tucked into her socks must look ridiculous, she realised. Even the most style-bereft tourists, the socks and sandals brigade, didn’t adopt that particular fashion.
'Have you finished your research,' he asked finally.
'Yes. I don’t think this tree is polluted in fact.'
'Everything is polluted here.'
She chose to ignore his comment.
'Thank you for your help.'
He did not reply, but she could feel him watching her as she moved up the slope into the yard and back along the track towards the main road. She prayed that the presence of the plastic pouches wouldn’t show in her walk. When she was halfway back to the car he shouted something in dialect which she could only just make out.
‘chi pazzea cu’ ‘o mulo nun le manca ‘nu caucio ‘nculo.
It was only after, in the car, when she’d got over the fact that Ransome was driving and settled into silence, that she realised what it meant. He who plays with the donkey doesn’t fail to get a kick in the arse. A donkey kicks you. A fire burns you… she thought of the glint of metal she'd seen poking out of the pocket of the man’s red trousers – completing the chain was all too easy…
When she unlocked the door of her flat she motioned for Ransome to wait in silence on the landing. Outbreaks of giggling from the bedroom of Luca and Allesandra- the coast was clear. She beckoned Ransome into her bedroom, where clothes were strewn about the floor because she’d never got round to acquiring a washing basket. Then there was all the stuff she’d amassed from the treasure trove of the centro storico: an old sewing machine, art prints that lay scattered about waiting to be hung when suitable frames could be found, books and papers, a Japanese vase with a single withering rose presented to her by a street seller; various packets of seeds and plant pots for the basket she was going to hang out the window; a one-eyed bear she’d had since she was a child... The shutters were down so she switched the light on. The whole scene was illuminated by a seedy red glow – she noticed a pair of Nico’s cartoon boxer shorts poking out from under the rug. Ransome’s attention had focused on a half finished joint laid across the top of a mug:
'You smoke?'
'Hardly at all. Last night I was feeling like shit'
'You ain’t no angel are you.'
She ignored him so he sat down on the bed while she set up the DVD player. All the discs looked ordinary enough – a mixture of Italian and the latest Hollywood cinema releases. It was beginning to look like a false trail. But they would have to watch and see. No way she was wasting the risk she’d taken. Suddenly she remembered-
'Shit.'
'What’s up?'
'I’ve got to teach.' Her private lesson with the kids on Via Roma. Three hours, two of English and one of French, which brought in a handy sixty euros, a sum that could go a long way in Napoli.
'Look, here’s the remote, you know how to work it don’t you.'
'Sure.'
She went through to the kitchen – scene of last night’s horrors - and reheated some coffee for a quick shot. There was no time to eat so she grabbed the car keys from the table top – glancing at the rota on the fridge which told her she should have cleaned the bathroom that morning – and went back into the room. Ransome had taken his sandals off and was sitting cross-legged on her bed in front of the TV.
'I’m going to lock the door. Here, put these in' – she yanked the headphones out of her cd player and tossed them over to him. 'Nobody can know you’re in here.'
He nodded. 'When you coming back?'
'By five. Which’ll give you plenty of time to find whatever’s on those films.'
'I can stay here?'
'Just this afternoon.'
'Thanks.'
'Ciao.' She turned the key to lock him in. So this was how a prison guard felt. Not that a guard would lock the prisoner in their own bedroom.