Night of Obscene Horror – Chapter Three

2nd September 2013

Green reached the bottom of the stairs, his face slick with sweat and his clothes clinging to him.

Why did it have to be so bloody hot here? He hated the heat, always had, even as a child. When the other kids had been outside frolicking in the summer sun he would much rather be alone in the cool of his bedroom. The solitude of the school holidays had felt like bliss to him, no need to interact with anyone but his mother, and her only sparingly. The intrusive noise of other people had appalled him then and still did now.

There was another way out of the building than the front door that the dead Italian has let him in by. Green’s careful preparation, scouring building plans and local maps, had revealed a rear exit leading to a courtyard garden. He knew that from there he could get to a back street that would take him away from the main plaza to an area where he could be easily find a taxi to take him to the railway station.

The public nature of the Italian’s death was unfortunate, but if he moved quickly and kept his head it shouldn’t be problematic. He knew the killing should bother him but it didn’t, it wasn’t the first and he doubted it would be the last. Murder was work for him, not even the goal of his labours, just a task that needed to be completed along the way. To a man, his victims had been fairly vile characters and he doubted that anyone wept for them. It might be an exaggeration to say that the world was better without them, but it certainly wasn’t any worse.

Green hurried along the hallway of the apartment building. It was old, once probably a single dwelling that had only in the twentieth century been carved up into individual abodes. The location was good and Green had no doubt that prospective tenants would be clamouring to rent the Italian’s room, despite the circumstances that had made it available.

The front door of the building had been covered with ornate cast iron bars to prevent anyone smashing the glass to gain entry. The ground floor windows had been similarly adorned, giving the building the look of an elegant fortress. This rear door was solid wood, painted the colour of pistachio ice cream, with a sign across the middle that read ‘Uscita Fuoco’ and beneath it in smaller script ‘Fire Exit’.

Green slammed a clammy hand on the metal bar that ran across it and pushed it open. Getting into the building may have been a challenge if the Italian hadn’t let him in, escaping it posed no such problems.

Beyond the green door the heat in the garden was fierce, the bright sun reflecting off the white walls of the surrounding buildings and focussed in the small courtyard where the high walls meant there wasn’t even the hint of a breeze. It was hotter than it should have been for that time of year, the temperatures matching those normally seen in the height of summer. The taxi driver who had driven him from Roma Termini had muttered about sunspots and global warming, happy to practice his English and share his conspiracy theories.

Green felt the hot air hit him and steal his breath like a punch to the gut. The light was dazzling him and he struggled for a second, his head spinning, sucking down hot air until he could see again. He thought for a moment about removing his jacket and carrying it, but that would rob him of the easy access to his knife that the clothing gave him. If he needed it again he would need it quickly.

The gate that led from the garden was ahead of him. He tried to ignore the heat and made for it. Once he got away from this infernal stillness and glare he would be alright. He just needed to do it quickly, or as quickly as his struggling body would allow him to anyway.

He could hear a siren now, coming from the other side of the building. He knew it might not be related to the misshapen corpse but it seemed unlikely that it wasn’t. Another incentive to move.

He pushed himself through the heat and reached the gate, pulling it open and stepping into the alley beyond it. It ran parallel to the street, between the backs of two rows of apartment buildings. A breeze blew along it and Green gulped down the fresher air hungrily. It was still warm but at least it didn’t sear his throat going down. He felt his strength returning, his head clearing of the dark panic that had threatened to engulf him.

The closest street was to the East so he walked in that direction, the afternoon sun on his back rather than his face, beating down on the back of his neck. He hadn’t even thought to apply sun block when he had left London the previous morning. The city been grey and damp, the sun just starting to rise as he travelled through Kent to the Channel Tunnel. He had arrived in Rome late that evening after a whole day travelling. Flying would have been faster but the security checks were more stringent and the enclosed space of an Airbus made his skin crawl from the proximity of the other passengers. The train wasn’t much better, but he could at least get up and walk around if it got too much. It wasn’t claustrophobia, just the constant closeness of all those other souls grating on his nerves.

He was booked on the sleeper back, which was even better, a compartment to himself, a place he could hide away in like he had in his bedroom as a boy. First he had to get to the station though. He had no possessions with him, just the film can still clutched under one arm. The clothes he had travelled in had gone in a bin outside the cheap hotel he’d slept in the night before. He’d left a bag in a locker at the station with pyjamas and his wash kit and a change of clothes for the journey home.

He reached the street and slowed his hurried pace, looking out of the alley for any sign of the police. There was none and he breathed a sigh of relief, ducking into a shadowed shop doorway and pausing to mop his brow with his handkerchief.

He didn’t think anyone had seen him in the window after the Italian’s fall, had no reason to suspect anyone was looking for him. Glancing at his wristwatch he saw he had three hours before he needed to be at the station but there was no reason to delay. He would take things calmly. Find a cab to drive him to Roma Termini and eat in a cafe nearby while he waited. Everything would be okay, he told himself, the Italian was dead, the film was in his possession. He just needed to play it cool until he could leave the city.

He stepped back into the sun and hailed a taxi.