For the next three years I devoted my life to my work but my wife and her brother ruled me. Then my wife and I went on holiday to Italy. We visited her family in Siena. We never went back to England. My wife never went anywhere again.
A terrible accident, I told the
We had gone to Spoleto, set among high, wooded hills, for me to see the magnificent fresco cycle by Fra Filippo Lippi in the cathedral. Such things did not interest my wife so her mood was not of the best, especially after an uncomfortable drive. After a late meal in our hotel dining room, we had slept in separate beds, though in the same room.
The next morning, I suggested we ignore the extensive Roman ruins in favour of the medieval aqueduct. She was interested in neither but reluctantly agreed to my plan.
We went to the east of the town and up a steep cobbled street. It was a hot morning and we moved slowly through promenading family groups.
We walked through a crumbling Roman arch and followed a path round the town’s curtain wall. The ground fell steeply away into a deep wooded ravine. It was spanned by the Ponte delle Torri, the half-mile-long bridge and aqueduct.
My wife peered down at the silvery thread of water in the very bottom of the ravine among a dense growth of ilex. I knew it to be a 300-foot drop.
‘Quite a feat of engineering,’ I said, squinting down the length of the bridge to a tower among the trees at the far end. I looked at the dozen thick pediments that held up the bridge and down at their foundations so far below.
‘Fourteenth century but built on Roman foundations,’ I said, though I knew my wife wasn’t interested. Her feet hurt from walking on the cobbles in her high-heeled shoes. I pulled my camera out of my bag. ‘I want to get a picture from the other side.’
‘I want to go back into town,’ my wife said. ‘It’s not like you to be so interested in taking snaps.’
I gestured at the bridge.
‘It’s spectacular. Look — there’s a walkway along the side. You want to come with me?’
‘I’ll wait here.’
‘Come on — I need you in the picture for scale.’
The bridge was essentially to carry a water pipe, which was cased in a ten-foot-high wall of brick. The walkway to the left of this casing was about four feet wide. As protection for people on the walkway, there was a low wall topped by a rail. The wooded ravine was an almost perfect V.
We had scarcely gone more than hundred yards when my wife, glancing down at the trees and the river so far below, lurched.
‘Vertigo?’ I said with concern.
‘I’m not going any further,’ she said. ‘This wall is too low.’
‘“Have ye courage, O my brethren? He hath heart who knows fear but vanquishes it, who sees the abyss but with pride.”’
My wife looked at me as if I was mad.
‘Nietzsche,’ I said. She snorted.
A couple of giggly teenage girls were approaching from the other side. I moved back against the iron rail and my wife flattened herself against the aqueduct wall to allow them to go by.
The walkway was now deserted beyond us. My wife began to perspire, craning her neck to look down again. It was a dizzying drop. I liked the feeling of walking in space. I took a couple of snaps.
‘Can we go back now?’ my wife said sharply.
‘I’d like a picture from the other side. Wait — I’ll be back soon.’
‘Wait for you?’
But I was already striding off.
‘Come back!’
I waved.
‘Five minutes.’
I disappeared behind the tower at the far end of the bridge. As I did so, two men in dark suits stepped on to the walkway and set off briskly towards the centre of the bridge. I followed a rough trail up through the trees. I could still glimpse the aqueduct with the town above it.
I saw my wife start to totter off the walkway. I found a spiral staircase pretty much intact in the tower. I went up two steps at a time and came out on to a magnificent view. From this height I could see the snow- streaked mountains rising behind the sprawl of Spoleto.
My wife had stopped on the bridge, facing the two men in dark suits whose laughter I could hear from the tower. She was standing a little stiffly, looking everywhere but down into the ravine. I took her picture.
I trained my camera on her as the two men purposefully approached.
My wife stepped back to let the two men go by. They didn’t go by. I had paid them well. They lifted my wife into the air and out over the parapet. There was nothing but air between her and the silver thread of water. The men dangled her over the parapet, her skirt falling down over her head. They let her go.
I took her snap. Arms flailing, she fell to the river so far below.
I telephoned her brother.
‘You’re a dead man,’ he said.
‘I’m staying in Italy for a while.’
‘That won’t save you.’
‘You know that Mussolini hates the Mafia? Most of the Mafiosi here are either dead, in prison or in hiding. I don’t recommend you do anything rash.’
‘I can wait,’ he said.
‘You’re going to have to.’
I gazed at the wall in front of me. It was as blank as my heart.
We give ourselves airs. Significance. Every life is sacred. No, it isn’t. After the Great War only an imbecile would believe that.
Life is nothing. We are animals, and animals die. When the spark dies, you become a thing. What are we, after all? Bone and gristle. Meat and muscle. Is a knee joint sacred? Has a shoulder blade a soul?
Life is not sacred, although it is perhaps a gift. You have it and it is snatched away as I snatched away the lives of my mistress and my wife.
As mine will one day be snatched away.
PART TWO
SEVEN
Detective Sergeant Sarah Gilchrist was reading the
The headline read: ‘No Action To Be Taken Against Police Officers Involved In Milldean Massacre.’
The article went on:
The Police Complaints Authority today announced that no action is to be taken against any officers from the Southern Police Authority in connection with the so-called ‘Milldean Massacre’ in which four people were shot and
