Malfaiera

or

Unholy Coincidence

Part One

Francesco rhythmically lifted his snow caked boots - just a few more steps now , .. soon be able to see the house. His dog limped beside him. Snow had driven between the pads of her paws and she whimpered occasionally as they made their slow progress to shelter.   It was stupid to come up this way in mid winter. The branch road to the property was impassable at this time of year and the house would be cold , the fire unlit since Lina, his wife, had died.  His daughter Laura begged him to move down to the town and live with her family. But stubborn old man that he was, he insisted on living in the old house. He could hear her voice even now ringing in his ears.

 ‘Babbo, you’ll die up there. You don’t eat properly, you don’t have a phone, what other fool in Italy lives like you do - even the peasants in Sardegna have electric fires and televisions - one of these days your grandchildren will drive up the track and find your bones chewed on by the wolves - Is that what you want for them?’

The house had been named Malfaiera from before the time of local memory. Some said it was a Roman name. Some that it stood for Mal fa qui era - some sort of corruption of the words for a bad thing happened here. Whatever the meaning it had been lost in time but the family and Francesco in particular had loved the place.  

 Maybe it was inconvenient but it was as secure as a fortress and solid as a rock, built in fact of the local stone, with walls thick enough to accommodate ‘priest hole’ style alcoves and ‘walk in’ chimneys and hearths. And today security is what he wanted. He had seen things he should not have seen - out there in the snow. Heard murmurings from those who did not know the old man walked the hills, he had old eyes, but they knew when they saw evil.

 At last,  the door. He fumbled the lock with his gloved hands not removing the protective covering, Lina had fitted a steel door like a bank vault after squatters had invaded while they were on a rare visit to their elder daughter Romina in London. He told her it was overkill but she insisted and as usual he eventually gave way to the female members of his family. But on a freezing night the metal could stick to the flesh of the unwary - hence the gloves stayed on losing precious seconds. Francesco fell inside enveloped in a flurry of snow, dog and clothing, he kicked the door shut behind him and sank to the ground sitting with his back to the door. His breath rasped as he sucked in the warmer indoor air and waited for his pulse to steady while Pippa the pointer sat licking her paws. 

 Had they seen him? No he was fairly sure they had not noticed him. But all the same , best to avoid lighting the fire, smoke might raise suspicions - did they know he lived up here? It was snowing and fortunately his tracks would soon be covered. Tomorrow he would go down to the town, make an excuse to stay with Laura, the grandchildren would like that, keep him out of the way for a few days and give him some time to process his thoughts. What should he do?

 “Porco cielo! What have I seen? How can I keep that inside my head?” Who could he turn to? “Better to keep myself out of it. Non ho visto niente[1]. When powerful men are involved in dirty dealings, they will always find a way to crush the likes of me.”

 Maybe he should get right away for a while. He had not been to London since Lina died. Romina had a nice house and he could stay as long as he liked without feeling he was in the way. Wistfully he reflected how he had missed his grandchildren growing up. Lucia had a place of her own now and was getting on in her career as a lawyer.  … But going to London might arouse suspicion. Would it look like he was running away? They might think he knew something.

 Why had they come back? Or had they? Maybe it was just his tired old brain making the wrong connections. He couldn’t think - waves of panic and fear spread over him making him feel physically sick. How long ago? Was it twenty years? Maybe longer - who knows, and who cares? Everyone else has forgotten those times now.

 He closed his eyes and the scene from the past replayed like a video inside his closed lids. It was up by the monastery at the top of the mountain. He had walked the back trails up from the house exercising his young truffle hound - Pippa’s great-grandmother was it?   A black Mercedes with thick snow tyres stood outside the chapel. He had thought it might be a visiting dignitary - perhaps the abbot or an archbishop from a neighbouring diocese.  But then a dark figure enveloped in a big coat, had come out of the building carrying a long cylinder - what could it be? Perhaps a rolled painting going for restoration?

 As he or she got into the back nodding to the driver to move on, Francesco caught a glimpse of another shadowy figure in the rear seat. But then the car moved upwards along a rough back-road. Why not go down to the valley? Did they know this was a dead end? Maybe strangers to the area they had mistaken the route. Francesco decided to walk down to meet them and put them on the right road. In this weather they could get stuck in a drift - snow tyres or no snow tyres.  

 The car sped away spraying snow to both sides like a passing snow plough and the reckless ascent put two bends between them and Francesco before he glimpsed the now stationary vehicle across a straight section. It had slewed to the side of the track against a juniper bush whose spiky branches had been shaken loose of their covering ice by the impact.

 The snow seemed to muffle the subsequent action and slow the scene to half speed.  A freeze frame in Francesco’s head saw the same figure get out of the car and talk animatedly to his fellow passenger while the driver calmly walked round the car and shot him through the head with a silenced pistol. At first Francesco did not realise what he had seen. Suddenly the figure fell and a trail of red arced across the virgin snow.

 Then what were they doing? Francesco could not quite make it out - The car engine idled for some minutes spewing out steam from the wide exhaust and obscuring his view.

 Francesco threw himself down in the ditch as the car sped back towards him, diving into the snow for cover and landing on top of his complaining hound.   As the car drew level - he glimpsed the passenger who for a split second  turned his head towards him unawares. It was a face he knew ….

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