Part 10 (1/2)

From the speakers on Mario's dashboard came the call of a fare waiting. 'You should take that,' Gina told him. 'We can manage.'

'You're sure?'

'Yes, I'll be fine to deal with them for now and if they need a ride later, I'll ring you. How long are you out for?'

'Another couple of hours? It depends on the fares.'

He was peering into the back seat as if checking for blood stains. Sasha scrabbled in her bag. 'I have money. I must pay you.'

He waved her away. 'Non c'e bisogno. There's no need, it's no distance.'

The note flapped in her grubby hand. 'Well, if you're sure...'

He hopped into his seat, gave Gina a thumbs up and revved back onto the main road.

Once inside the apartment Gina avoided turning the lights up too brightly. She wasn't keen to see the damage these two foolish young people had done to themselves.

'Joe will need the first bath,' she said, turning on the taps and flinging open her medicine cabinet in search of witch hazel, iodine, TCP, bandages and paracetamol; cursing because her stocks were low. 'While you're waiting, Sasha, I'll get you an ice pack.' Really, she could do without a drama at this stage of the evening. She hustled Joe into the bathroom and then wrapped the contents of an ice tray in a plastic bag, which she covered with a tea towel and handed to the girl. 'I'm popping out for some more painkillers,' she said. 'You're both going to need them.'

'Will any chemists be open?'

'Oh, I'll get them from Gaetano, he usually keeps some behind the bar.'

Sasha covered her face with the ice pack and muttered, 'I'm so sorry.'

Sorry! raged Gina, as she clattered downstairs again. I'll give you sorry! She couldn't articulate why she felt so angry with the girl. After all, Joe had been beaten up before and worse. But she clung to her conviction that Sasha would have been the catalyst. She'd seen it before: a typically careless teenager, sodden with alcohol, flirting her socks off until things got out of hand. The girl was naive, unaccustomed to drinking, unaware, like so many of them, of the messages she was transmitting. Joe presumably intervened to protect her from some other drunk's advances.

Gaetano's bar was empty; he was clearing up. He'd been serving coffees since seven that morning and was polis.h.i.+ng to an immaculate s.h.i.+ne the chrome of his trusty machine. He shook his head as she came in. 'Mi dispiace, Gina. I'm closing.'

'Ouf, I don't want a drink. It's aspirins I'm after. Or paracetamol. Have you any to spare?'

He tutted in sympathy and she decided it was best to pretend the need was hers. 'I can't afford to get a migraine. I've a big day tomorrow.' She was glad his father, who in theory had retired years ago, wasn't on duty. He missed the interaction with customers and would have insisted on a ream of information: where precisely was the pain that she was trying to treat? How long had she endured it, had it travelled at all? There could well be a more accurate remedy, to which he could offer the key. Had she not heard that a paste of lemon rind on the forehead could work wonders? Or a poultice of cabbage leaves?

Gaetano fumbled below the counter and produced a full packet of paracetamol.

'Gae, you're brilliant! I'll replace them tomorrow, I promise, as soon as the farmacia opens.'

He wrang out a soapy dishcloth. 'No hurry.'

'I don't suppose you've a big bottle of acqua minerale? I've a feeling I'm going to need plenty of liquid too.'

He produced a bottle from his chiller, cloudy with condensation. 'Thanks a million. My saviour!'

Re-entering the apartment she found Sasha in the hallway, scrutinising her reflection in the long mirror. There were grazes on her knees and scratches on her arms but, when she lifted the ice pack, Gina could see her face was the real casualty: a closed eye, a puffy cheek, an egg-like swelling on her forehead. The eye that was open was stricken and appalled.

'Not pretty,' Gina said.

'Oh my G.o.d, I can't believe it! I can't let anyone see me like this.'

'The swelling should go down quite quickly. But you're going to be colourful for about a week, I'd say.'

'That long? Oh no!' Her legs crumpled and Gina supported her into a chair in the living room. Sasha clamped the ice pack back onto the left-hand side of her face.

'Do you want to tell me how it happened?'

'Everything was going really well. We were having a wicked time. Truly.' Her mouth quivered and she sank her teeth into her bottom lip.

Gina held out two paracetamol, poured water into a gla.s.s. 'Where were you?'

Sasha gulped them down and continued. 'Oh, it was a bar in Campo de' Fiori. Nice chilled atmosphere and stuff, great music, no aggro. But Harry was showing off, playing silly b.u.g.g.e.rs a bit and that's how it started.'

'Who's Harry?'

'One of the Yanks. Normally he's, like, sound, but I don't know whether he was p.i.s.sed off because Ilse has this new bloke or whether he was just rat-a.r.s.ed. Anyway, he was doing these stupid tricks with a beer bottle and he ended up arguing with Joe.'

Why, pondered Gina, would Joe get into an argument with an American? He knew how vital it was to stay out of trouble. Could he have been trying to impress Sasha?

'So then,' the girl said, 'these other guys joined in, like they'd been waiting for a chance to have a go. And it wasn't even fair. Joe was way outnumbered, so I tried to stop them.'

'You did?'

'Yes.'

'Why?'

'I don't know why. Well, because I wanted them to stop and I thought they'd back off. Which they did... afterwards.'

'You mean, after you got involved?'

'Yes. And I suppose I felt a bit guilty because I was the reason Joe was in the piazza in the first place. I mean, Renate was the one who sent the text message, but...'

Gina was revising her opinion of Sasha: foolhardy, but the girl had spirit. This was Mitch's daughter, all right. She recalled him trying to break up a fight in Sydney. Mitch claimed he'd acted instinctively. He hadn't antic.i.p.ated the knife blade that only just failed to puncture his lung. 'Nine lives, see,' he'd said, trying to make light of the incident, though it had cast a shadow.

'When Joe comes out of the bathroom,' she said, 'I'll check him over in case he needs any st.i.tches. You can get yourself cleaned up and I'll put you in a cab back to the Bolettis.'

'Oh no, please! Don't make me go back there.'

'Why, what have they done do you?'

'They haven't done anything,' wailed Sasha. 'But look at me!'

'They'll be worried about you.'

'No, they won't. They knew this was my last night and I was likely to come in late. As long as I contact them in the morning, it will be fine. Can't I stay here? Please?'

'I only have one spare bed. I think Joe needs it more than you do.'