Intruders #2
“It was that first summer we worked together. We were left to clear the bar at the end of a weekday evening shift before heading off to find some food and then somewhere to bunk down for the night. I wasn’t there when it happened, but Tomek found a paperback stuffed down one of the bench seats left behind by someone, a well-thumbed, yellow-stained book that had seen better days.
Apparently, he tossed the book to you out of curiosity, and after a glance at the front and back covers—we were busy trying to finish up and get out of there—you told him it was by Dick Francis, something called Longshot, before reading off the blurb on the back.
After that, you tossed it back to him, telling him to leave it in the lost property box. ”
“Not much of an anecdote so far—” I say.
“Hold your horses,” says Josh before his humour kicks in again. “See what I did there? Dick Francis? Hold your horses—”
“Get on with it, Josh,” comes Nishan’s voice.
“All right, all right, hostile audience. Tomek came to me after the incident and asked me if I knew whether you could speak any other languages. I told him jokingly that you could barely speak English. Then he explained what had happened, showed me the cover and told me the book was a Russian translation. At the time, I assumed you recognised the picture on the cover from the English version and knew the story. It never really signified. But then, as I got to know you, Gabe, other odd little things kept popping up.”
“Such as?”
“Trivial stuff, and honestly, now’s not the time. You’ve got enough on your plate. And on that note, have you found anything about Luria?” he asks.
“I mentioned the name to the doctor, without giving too much away. He thinks it’s a reference to an Italian microbiologist who specialised in viruses, which, given Albert’s area of expertise, actually makes a lot of sense.
I’ve been searching through the massive library here, but it’s like, you know—”
“Looking for a condom in a convent?” offers Josh.
Typical Josh, to make light of things, and I hear Nishan chuckle down the line.
“Something like that,” I say before lowering my voice.
“But there is something odd. This place is riddled with exterior CCTV cameras, pretty much lining the perimeter of the building. Okay, so the villa is isolated, the only dwelling at the end of a long lane, and a bit of added security is understandable, but this seems—I don’t know—excessive. ”
“Sounds a bit kinky. Did you check your bedroom?” asks Josh. “Maybe there’s some perv recording you naked in the shower? Do you think you’ve been filmed jerking off—”
“Josh, stop it!” says Nishan, although I can hear him laughing.
“Actually, I did check the rooms, and I’m sure the cameras are only installed outside.”
“Just in case,” says Josh. “I’ll keep an eye out in case you make a guest appearance on someone’s OnlyFans page.”
“Go and have your breakfast, Josh,” I say. “You’re having far too much fun at my expense.”
“Welcome to my world,” says Nishan, and I hear him having words with Josh, but can’t make them out.
“We’re waiting for an emergency glazier to turn up.
I’ve sent him off to phone and find out when they’re going to show, being Sunday and all.
Before you go, though, I managed to hack into Albert’s phone and find his messages from a few days before his death.
The only thing that jumped out at me is the back and forth between him and someone called SLB—”
“Dr Sylvie Leblanc. The friend in the minibus with him who survived, the one who’s in a coma. Actually, do you know if she’s still—”
“Still in a coma? Yes, according to Alice’s texts to you. Her vitals are stable, but she hasn’t regained consciousness.”
“Sorry, what were you saying? About Albert’s texts?”
“Mostly unexceptional. A lot about having fun in Brussels. Although there was one back-and-forth with Sylvie, who insisted on cornering an official for a private talk. Albert seems less sure, but she’s quite adamant about raising her concerns with this medical watchdog person about a particular research programme—”
“At the conference they were attending?” I ask.
“That wasn’t explicitly mentioned. Maybe. Do you think that might have had something to do with the accident?”
I can’t help letting out a deep sigh. “Who knows? I’m beginning to wonder if we ever will.”
“In one of Alice’s texts, she says the police let the family see the traffic cam footage of the accident. The driver did lose control. He was well over the speed limit in the fast lane and hit a barrier, then the van flipped over four or five times. A miracle that no other cars were involved.”
Before we sign off, Nishan agrees to call me in a couple of days if there are any further developments.
When I put down the phone, I am more unsure than ever.
Albert had definitely been distracted during those last few days of his life.
Did Leblanc’s text messages have something to do with that?
Alice said the police report stated that the driver had been well over the legal limit and even had some antidepressants in him, enough for him to easily fall asleep at the wheel.
I take a deep breath and decide to do what I can to find this bloody Luria reference.
For the next couple of days, unending rainfall is accompanied by the occasional violent thunderstorm.
Unable to swim, I spend more time searching the library.
Mrs Bellacci comes by at one point and asks me if I am looking for anything in particular.
I flub a response she seems to accept, then keep searching until I begin to lose the will to live.
On both days, I manage a whole morning and a couple of hours in the afternoon before heading upstairs to take a nap.
I enjoy lying with the patio doors open, listening to the rain clattering on the tiled roof and the cool breezes it brings.
At the end of the second day, I realise I am more than halfway through the book collection.
I am guessing—I don’t know for sure—that Albert put the books away hastily and in no particular order, maybe expecting to come back in the future and organise them properly.
Still, I find nothing on or by anyone called Luria.
At dinner on the second day, I notice the rain has stopped.
There is a beautiful smell in the air of turf, lemons and other aromatic scents I can’t distinguish.
Mrs Bellacci spoils me with a delicious seafood stew crammed with squid, langoustines, octopus and mussels, all served with her freshly homemade focaccia bread.
I usually turn down the offer of wine, not particularly fond of drinking alone, but I decide to enjoy a glass of red with the meal.
When I retire to my room and allow Mrs Bellacci to clear the table, I check my phone but find no messages or missed calls.
As night falls, I strip down to my boxers and pace the room, feeling restless.
In the distance, I hear water falling and move to the open balcony doorway.
Once again, there is Lorenzo in all his glory, showering in the buff, lit by an exterior wall lamp.
Part of me wonders if he does so intentionally.
When he looks my way as he did before, he smooths a hand slowly down from his chest to his groin, and I am almost sure he squeezes his balls.
Lather dribbles down his body, and I notice my breathing has become more pronounced.
Is that his intention? I know I am not visible because there is no light coming from my room, and I am standing in shadow, but I can tell he is searching for me.
The certainty of his open display has me fully aroused, and I reach down inside my underwear to palm my erection.
Just after midnight, having dropped off while rereading my dog-eared paperback of Dickens’ Pickwick Papers, I open my eyes feeling wide awake.
After sitting on the side of the bed for a moment, I stroll out to the balcony.
Lights illuminating the pool draw my attention.
The air is clear and clean tonight, and after two mornings of not swimming because of the weather, I pull on my swimming briefs and grab a towel.
The swim is leisurely and unhurried, the water surprisingly warmer than I had anticipated, and I manage around sixteen lengths before calling it quits.
The sky appears crystal clear, and I hope the rain clouds have moved on and the weather will be fine.
Morning swimming has always been my preferred routine.
I am towelling myself off when I hear footfalls behind me. I twist around to see Lorenzo approaching me. He wears long dark shorts and has just removed his T-shirt, revealing his tattooed torso. Once again, he has the same arrogant expression I had witnessed before.
“You race me, sfigato,” he says, carelessly throwing his tee down onto the grass. “Twenty times. I win, you fuck off to home. Yes?”
Barely have I had time to acknowledge his words, than he has dived in from the end of the pool and begun swimming.
I stall a moment, considering walking away like the decent English gentleman Albert always wanted me to be.
Instead, the competitive demon in me rises, and I decide to accept his challenge.
He has already completed a length by the time I break the surface of the water, but I see already that he swims like a sprinter, fast and energetic, whereas my swims are marathons.
Ten lengths later, and we are almost neck and neck.
Another eight, and I am a good half a stretch in front.
Just to provoke his arrogance, I slow my pace on the final lap, then climb slowly from the pool.
I walk away across the lawn, stopping and stooping only to pick up my towel.
Without turning back, I raise my fist in the air and show him my middle finger.