The Lost Girls of Rome by Donato Carrisi

man was no more than five or six feet from him. God alone knew how long he had been watching him.
    ‘Turn around,’ the voice ordered.
    Marcus did so, slowly. The light from the courtyard filtered dimly through the bars over the window, projecting a cage-like pattern on the wall. Within it, enclosed like a wild beast, was a dark, threatening silhouette. The man was about eight inches taller than him, and solidly built. They both stood there motionless for a time, without speaking. Then the voice emerged again from the darkness.
    ‘Is it you?’
    From the timbre, he sounded little more than a boy. Marcus recognised anger in the tone, but also fear.
    ‘It is you, you son of a bitch.’
    He had no idea if this man was armed. He kept silent, letting him speak.
    ‘I saw you come here with that other man yesterday morning.’ Marcus guessed that he was referring to his first visit with Clemente. ‘I’ve had an eye on this place for two days. What do you people want with me?’
    Marcus tried to make sense of these words, but in vain. And there was no way to predict what would happen.
    ‘Are you trying to rip me off?’
    The shadow took a step towards him, and Marcus saw his hands: he wasn’t carrying a weapon. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
    ‘You’re fucking with me.’
    ‘Maybe we should go somewhere else and discuss this calmly.’
    ‘Let’s talk about it now.’
    Marcus decided to come out into the open. ‘Are you here because of the missing girl?’
    ‘I don’t know anything about the girl, I had nothing to do with that. Are you trying to frame me, you bastard?’
    Marcus sensed that he was genuine. If he was an accomplice of Jeremiah Smith, why run the risk of coming back?
    Before Marcus could think of an answer, the stranger rushed at him, grabbed him by the collar and pushed him up against the wall. Pinning him there with one hand, he took out an envelope with the other and waved it under Marcus’s nose. ‘Are you the one who wrote me this fucking letter?’
    ‘That wasn’t me.’
    ‘Then what are you doing here?’
    First, Marcus needed to understand how this situation might be connected with Lara’s disappearance. ‘Let’s talk about that letter if you like.’
    But the young man had no intention of yielding control of the conversation. ‘Did Ranieri send you? You can tell that bastard I’m through with him.’
    ‘I don’t know anybody called Ranieri, you have to believe me.’
    He tried to get away, but the man was still holding him firmly. He hadn’t finished with him yet.
    ‘Are you a policeman?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘What about the symbol, then? Nobody knew about the symbol.’
    ‘What symbol?’
    ‘The one in the letter, you arsehole.’
    The letter and the symbol: Marcus stored away this information. It wasn’t much, but it might help him to understand the young man’s intentions. Unless, quite simply, he was mad. He had to take charge of the situation. ‘Forget about the letter. I don’t know anything.’
    ‘Who the fuck are you?’
    Marcus did not reply, hoping he would calm down. Instead of which, he was thrown to the floor and found himself crushed beneath the other man’s weight. He tried to defend himself, but the young man was pressing down on his chest and hitting him. He lifted his arms to protect his head, but the blows stunned him, and the taste of blood filled his mouth. He had the feeling he was about to lose consciousness, until he realised it was all over. From where he lay, he saw the young man opening the door of the apartment. For a moment he saw him from behind, framed in the light from the courtyard. Then the door closed, and he heard his steps quickly move away.
    Marcus waited a while before trying to stand. He felt dizzy and his ears were whistling. He did not feel any pain. Not yet. It would come all at once, he knew, but it would take time. That was always how it happened. He would feel bad all over his body, even where he had not been hit.