There is no God. There is no God. The fool hath said in his heart, There is no God.
My right arm is taught and strung out, at the other end a flailing figure. His fingertips, blue with the cold, white with exertion, bite into my wrist. He is a man I know well, but the terror in his eyes is entirely unfamiliar. Shiny black shoes scrabble at the cliff face, only succeeding in dislodging icicles, which plummet like all the darts of the enemy into gray canyon mists. His dinner jacket billows like a black sail on a plague vessel.
In instinct I grip him, but he is entirely at my mercy. Mine to cast before the justice of Almighty God.
Stabbing bursts of breath. "Please," he says, face contorted in folds of agony. "Please spare me." The blood vessels criss-crossing his forehead quiver their agreement. He means it.
Cold, hard, blunt fear. More secrets to hide than I could ever know, a conscience strapped and laden and dragging its feet like a man forty days into a fast.
My shoulder burns. Any moment now the snow beneath my body will shrivel up and suffocate me, a thawing shroud of indecision. I am not wrestling with gravity, the wind, or even the treacherous handshake of Aldo Cavallo. Like Jacob in long years past, I am wrestling with God.
Why is this moment so different from my imaginings? If he would remain the figure of proud authority to the end, if he would dare me to release my grip, even if he would curse me with his last breath… then it would be so easy. But he is helpless, his naked dread is so human. He appeals to my compassion. He begs for mercy.
It's the waiting that kills me in this game. I'm a man of precision; I can cope with the cleaning up. Dusting down the powder burns from the clothing of a fresh corpse. Mopping up warm blood from a tiled floor. Steadying the heartbeat as furniture is returned to its original orientation. I can do those things, they are logical and sensible and necessary. But waiting always feels apathetic, like spectating before the crumbs of sand as they funnel-march through the hourglass.
But there I was anyway, waiting. Looking up at the sky through the layered fabric of a thousand branches. Waiting for final darkness as the snowflakes continued to swirl.
The warm light of the oil lamp spilled from the window behind me and onto the forest floor. Tire tracks were covered long ago by a fresh frosting, the truck roped down under a tarpaulin, our store cabin situated a full five miles into the mountains. I exhaled a last lungful of smoke across the porch and extinguished my cigarette on the rotted handrailing beside me. Then, by habit, I stowed the stub in the tobacco tin in my breast pocket. A man of precision.
As I entered the cabin, I heard Aldo talking, his deep voice muffled through the wall.
"She was playing tea parties with her dolls see, this is one of her many games… she has two dolls, she calls them Zingaro and Fiore - original, yes? Lines them up ready and waiting… and it's only as she moves to pour them their tea that I see there's steam - real steam mind you, not make believe - real steam, coming from her little teapot, God knows where she got the water from, and… too late, she splashes scalding hot water on her leg. Ow ow ow! She screams and she screams! And I take her on my knee, dab her down with a cold flannel... and when the tears have retreated a little bit - this takes a while - I tell her, 'Now you've got a little map of Sicily on your leg, just where you need it!'"
"Don't let him speak so easily." They both looked up as I entered the room. Aldo greeted me with his bowler hat smile. Charming and utterly hollow. Luca looked stung.
"What's the harm? Let him tell his stories," he said.
He was leant over our makeshift table with a hand-rolled cigarette between thumb and forefinger, and was slowly turning it on its tip. The lamp beyond him cast a long shadow like the elongated hand of a clock twitching half past midnight. Aldo sat across from him, distanced from the table, back to the window.
"Davide has heard them all before. He tires of the repetition." He looked across to me. "Isn't that right my friend?"
I took my seat at the table. Aldo Cavallo, every part the most powerful man in Sicily, even with his hands roped tightly behind his back. In memory, I forced myself to place my own hands within the bindings, to feel again the rough cord cutting into flesh. Impossible to relax, the muscle fatigue spreading up the arms, the fingers feeling swollen and heavy with the restricted blood flow. He must be tense, he must be tired. It was an indication of his fortitude that he could still command the room with such gravity.
I avoided his gaze and stared at my clasped hands in front of me on the table. "Luca, take off his socks."
Luca hesitated for a moment, but then scraped his chair slowly back across the floorboards as he moved to comply.
"Words are like salt, you should know that Luca," said Aldo. "Just a sprinkling brings out all the rich flavours... but too much is a poison. Davide is a wise man, he appreciates the power of my little games."
Luca was crouched at Aldo's feet and had taken off a shoe.
"Stuff his mouth, use his laces to hold them in."
Aldo lifted a leg to make the removal of his other shoe easier. He looked down at Luca. "So much potential."
"Make your knots tight. I don't want him to enjoy breathing."
Luca looked over his shoulder towards me, hoping for a reprieve from his duty. My stare was practised, carrying with it the weight of my own authority, established through brutality. I watched as Aldo winced under the tightening knots, the butcher's string incising the gammon joint. His moonlight blue eyes searched me, questioning my limits, daring me to continue.
As the evening wore on, his eyelids dropped, and his breathing became soft. Only the rise and fall of his chest marked him out as living. He could not have looked more peaceful even he were dead.
My own skeleton ached and cracked with tiredness, but adrenaline kept me focused. This was the culmination of months of planning, but the seeds of resentment had been planted years ago.
It wasn't that Aldo Cavallo was a poor boss. He had discipline, organisation and precision, all qualities that I admired. And beyond that, he was in many ways a father figure to me.
At seventeen, I was a disillusioned runaway, with no trade to my name, just a will and stubbornness to work damned hard, earn myself a future. Sicily felt a thousand miles from home, though it was only separated from the mainland by a narrow two mile channel. But that salt water voyage felt like a leap of freedom to a young man closeted in the straitjacket of a strict Catholic upbringing.
My tenacity and northern dialect got me noticed and landed me a first job, patching nets in one of Sicily's fishing ports. It was long hours, and late too. The boats docked at midday, as the island slumped into riposo, but I would sizzle in the harsh Mediterranean sun as I carefully knotted together any frayed ends which had been torn loose by the thrashing of the catch. Depending on how many others were working the dock I would be patching through to the early hours, sometimes right up to the five o'clock departure of the next day's crews.
I never minded too much. It was all fresh independence. And as I climbed the steep track back to my lodgings, I would often glimpse the hazy rays breaking out over the bay in glorious sunrise; God's artistry on display seemingly for my viewing alone.
But no-one had told me about the vicious, criminal undercurrents that kept the population in a silent vice. Rival gangs, petty thieves, but controlled by powerful figures in authority. Like my nets, the multitude squabbling for existence were, in reality, all pulled along by just a few sharp hooks in society. Late one night I was assaulted, and left tied up in a wine cellar. Beaten and bloodied, my Good Samaritan went by the name of Aldo Cavallo. He loosened the ropes around my wrists, and washed down my wounds. The thugs had mistaken me for someone else, he said, and he had an offer of work for me as compensation.
I refused at first, politely of course. I was fragile and returned to what was familiar - the Church. The rituals were a salve to my emotional wounds, the quiet anonymity something of a comfort. And the Father gave one lesson which adhered to my memory like a limpet.
The reading was from a Psalm. I sat up a little straighter in my pew when he announced that it was written by my namesake, David, King of Israel. And not even the drone of the Father's oratory could blunt the first line: "The fool hath said in his heart, There is no God".
Aldo was there too, four rows in front of me. After the Mass he repeated his job offer, and this time I accepted. He was respectable and trustworthy, willing to give his time to help me. Everybody knew him, and humbly tipped their hats as he greeted them. From his hands came favour and generosity. Like a fool, I worshipped him. And I vowed I would give anything to be like him.
There was a grunt from the other side of the room. Aldo wanted to say something. I beckoned Luca to aid him.
The laces had left an ugly red welt across his face, but with the socks removed from his mouth, he could talk.
"I need to piss. Don't make me wet the floor."
"Use the bucket in the back room," I said to Luca. "Leave his hands tied. Just take down his trousers."
Aldo shrugged. "The privileges of old age."
Luca tucked his pistol into the back of his belt and half-guided, half-pushed Aldo into the back room. There was a shuffling of clothes and the grating of the bucket being slid across the boards. Then Luca emerged alone, closing the door behind him.
"He wanted privacy," he said, meeting my accusing stare. "It's safe. There's nothing out there but the bucket and the darkness."
I listened to the metallic trickling sound reverberating from the bucket.
Luca's hand rested on his gun, his thumb tracing the contours of the chamber. "If you're so worried, why don't you just kill him now?"
"I've told you the plan. We hand him over to Mauro's men."
"Who will kill him anyway."
I rubbed my eyes, and pinched the bridge of my nose. Luca was shifting his weight from foot to foot.
"I'll kill him if you want, I will." He levelled his pistol at the wall, squinting down the barrel. "Just a quick shot, like putting down a stray."
"Show some respect."
There was a sharp crack from the back room, and the clattering of the bucket. Luca was first to the door, and flung it open. I lifted the oil lamp above my head to illuminate the small room. Wind whistled through the small broken window, a flurry of snow draughting into the room. Aldo, trousers around his ankles was sprawled face down in the corner, the bucket overturned. A glistening puddle edged towards us, mingling with blood dripping from a deep cut on Aldo's heel.
I handed the lamp to Luca and hauled Aldo to a seated position against the wall. As I stepped back he seemed older, defeated, the light from overhead exaggerating his sunken eyes and sagging cheeks. Flakes of snow melted on contact with his wet legs, but he still shivered in the icy draught.
"You're pathetic. Where did you think you were going to go?"
My wristwatch showed half past midnight. Together we replaced Aldo's socks, shoes and trousers. It was time to go.
He limped as we helped him across to the truck, eyes closed tight against the elements. Luca held him at the elbow whilst I loosened the tarpaulin. The wind snarled and snapped at the fabric, snatching the corner from me.
"Hold the lamp closer, damn it!"
In an instant the shadows span. Luca yelped at Aldo's winding blow, and the lamp hit the floor. As the snaking trail of oil flared up we saw Aldo running for the trees. But then it was gone and we were plunged into pitch black. Any sounds of his escape were lost beneath the wild flapping of the tarpaulin in the wind.
"Take the truck." I pressed the keys into his hand. "He'll aim for the road, he has to. See if you can head him off."
With the spare oil from the cabin I set off after Aldo tracking his blood-soaked footprint. His route wound past the broken cabin window. Further along, I found the ropes from around his wrists, frayed at the ends, cut with a shard of glass.
But despite his head start, I caught up with him quickly. In the darkness, even with eyesight adjusted, he had lost his footing and slithered over the edge of a canyon. I had to pick my way carefully downwards, using the tree roots as rungs. All I could see of him was his hand, grasping onto the edge. With feet hooked between the roots, I lay on my front and edged over the drop. He snatched at my hand.
I assess the drop. Snow pads the base of the cliff, but sharp rocks protrude like fists from the canyon face. Even if he doesn't smash his skull during the fall, he'll certainly be a block of ice before anyone can get to him.
"Please… please, spare me."
My arm aches, and I know I must make a decision.
I look at his hand again, fastened around my wrist. His lifeline - my friend, my father. I remember our first handshake, his welcome, "Now we're both part of the same thing, cosa nostra."
I look at my hand, with the little finger missing. A little "father's discipline" he called it, a rebuke to teach me my place. The trigger - this man, this monster.
I've waited for this moment. It's the waiting that kills me in this game.
The fool hath said in his heart, There is no God.
I am no fool.
