Lucifer's Shadow

41 The prison

Tourist dollars rarely crossed the water to Giudecca. The narrow promenade where the vaporetto stopped was filthy from construction work. Old mattresses, supermarket trolleys, and plastic bags littered the pavement. Dorsoduro sat across the canal, another world, affluent and remote. Daniel glanced at the familiar shoreline, examined the map, then headed west, towards the ugly red brick monstrosity of the Molino Stucky. After five minutes of dodging bags of rubbish and workmen’s barricades, he turned gratefully away from the waterfront, following a narrow rio populated by small private craft. A modest wooden bridge led over to the Fondamenta delle Convertite and the former monastery which was now part of the prison service.

He stopped for a moment and looked at the oval sign over the white marble entrance. It read: Istituti Penali Femminili. A small video camera was hooked over the arch on a swan’s-neck clasp. This was a place he had never expected to visit. Even now, a day and a half after the strange and terrifying incident in Ca’ Scacchi, he continued to feel that he was walking inside a dream, one which would disappear if only he knew how to press with sufficient force against the dull, persistent inertia which held him in its folds. At times, when his mind seemed incapable of grasping the full extent of the events shaping around him, he hoped this was some momentary nightmare, a brief second of reverie between rolling out of Laura’s bed and landing on the floor. The jolt never came. He had sat for an hour watching Scacchi’s unconscious face in the Ospedale al Mare that morning, praying for answers. He had spoken to the undertakers about the shipment of Paul’s body to an ancient mother in Minneapolis, as the American’s will had requested. He had listened to Massiter’s urgent pleas, half-begging, half-threatening, and sat through the first entire performance of the concerto in rehearsal and found himself both awed and chilled by its strange, relentless power. Dreams did not contain such details. They occurred only in the unavoidable harshness of reality.

He ran his fingers through his hair and briefly found himself wondering about the state of his clothes. Laura always examined him, he realised. He constantly sought her approval, even now. Then he let the single grey eye of the camera record his presence, announced himself at the counter, and waited to be called. Fifteen minutes later he was summoned to a small room with a single window barred with a twisted iron grille. She sat at a low table. A woman guard stood in shadow in the far corner. Laura wore a plain blue shift. Her hair was tied back severely behind her head. Her skin was pale and perfect. Watching the uncertainty in her bright, nervous eyes, sensing the flux of emotions she felt in his presence, Daniel Forster knew then, more surely than at any time in the past, that some kind of immutable bond existed between them.

Her hands were pressed flat on the table. He reached out and touched them. Slowly, deliberately, she withdrew her fingers from his.

“Don’t, Daniel,” she said softly.

The sense that he was in a dream returned. In his head, he was helping her to her feet, they were walking out of the door, out into the hot afternoon sunshine, out into a new life which had no past, only a bright, never-ending future.

“I miss you,” he said finally.

She turned her head to face the wall, and he saw there a single tear resting in the corner of her eye. The guard coughed. Outside, a boat passed noisily along the rio.

“You saw him today? How is he?” she asked.

“He is unconscious.”

She turned and stared forcefully at him. “All the time? He has not woken at all and spoken to the police?”

This sudden practical turn in her manner offended him for some reason. “He has not come to and told them you have gone insane, if that is what you mean. He has had more than one stroke, they say. They don’t know if he will speak again. Why are you doing this?”

Her eyes flashed at him, accusing. “Think of Scacchi, Daniel. Not me. I should have protected them.”

“I’m sorry, Laura. I don’t know what to say. I don’t know what to do or think. I feel as if I’m going mad, because I understand nothing. Nothing. And you’re not there to help me see through the mist. You make the fog yourself. Why, please?”

She sighed and relaxed on the hard prison chair. “Will he never recover?”

He said nothing, merely bowed his head. Laura closed her eyes. A thin line of tears ran down each cheek.

“You owe it to me,” he pleaded. “You owe it to him. To explain. To tell them the truth.”

She seemed affronted. “I owe none of you anything. I loved Scacchi. Perhaps I love you, Daniel. I simply don’t know. But I’m not in anyone’s debt. And you’ve always understood less than you believe. You weren’t there. How do you know I haven’t told them the truth?”

“How?” He very nearly laughed. “Because I recall sitting on Piero’s boat, when I was younger, when I was a different person, hearing you warn me very seriously that you loved those men, both of them, and would be obliged if I either learnt to love them, too, or affected as much. Now you say their blood is on your hands. I know you’re lying, Laura, and I don’t understand why. This is madness.”

“We mustn’t meet again, Daniel,” she said in a low, firm voice. “Never. It’s as painful for me as it is for you.”

“Laura!”

“I will tell them. The prison people. I’ll say they must not allow you admission. I will not see you again. In this place, or anywhere else. You must go now, go to this concert of yours. Forget about us. Make the most of your life. Find the people who are like you. Talk to Amy. Anyone.” She moved forward until her head was back in the light. He had never seen such determination in her face. “If you stay here, you will be devoured for sure. And I’ll hate your memory for refusing my advice. I say this to you out of love, Daniel. Go, and do not look back.”

The vehemence in her voice chilled him. “I deserve an explanation,” he murmured.

“It is a dangerous thing to ask for what one deserves,” she answered primly. “You may whisper for angels and find yourself dancing with demons. Listen to me. Their blood is on my hands. When I wake in the morning, I see their faces staring back at me, I hear their voices rattling around my head. This is my hell, and I do not wish to share it. Now, go!”

He reached forward and seized her hands. “I will not abandon you, Laura.”

She snatched her fingers from his touch, stood, and was immediately transformed. A stream of vile curses flew from her lips like acid spittle. Her hands waved manically in front of her face; her arms windmilled through the air.

The slumbering guard woke up amid Laura’s insane screeches. Daniel stayed on his seat, waiting for his head to burst. The woman in uniform came over and tapped hard on his shoulder. “You’d better get out of here, mister. If she carries on like that, I have to do something and it’s not nice.”

He refused to move. Laura retreated to the corner, shrank down into a small blue shape on the floor, hands around her legs, face buried in her lap, like a child. He heard her sobbing; he closed his eyes.

“Mister?”

The guard’s hand lay heavy on his shoulder. Daniel Forster rose from the chair.

“Laura?” he said, close to tears. She did not budge, making only a rhythmic, meaningless sound.

He walked outside, out into the hot afternoon, sat on the edge of the grimy canal, stared at the rubbish in the water, lowered his face into his hands, and began to weep.