The Painted Altar

Chapter Thirteen

Plot reminder: Still in her guise of freelance journalist, and with the help of a local man named Lucio, Mary has tracked down her father's brother, Salvatore. It is during their conversation that for the first time she sees a photograph of her father.

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As Lucio and I wound our way back through the twisting, claustrophobic streets of the harbourside, the sun had risen to such an angle that it washed its glow over rooftops, threatened soon to penetrate those few of the uppermost windows which weren't boarded up. Rather than add a gloss of cheer, it served only to reinforce the impression that the neighourhood existed in some sort of underground dimension, the light of day a luxury enjoyed by higher spheres.

It was apt perhaps that the streets where my father had scampered and scurried as a child should provide an accurate analogy to investigations. Pitched in a perennial shade, without illumination, any kind of clear straight view ahead. Right at that moment, all Kubič had to work with were a few random shreds of some much larger and as yet imperceptible image. Unidentified remains, a few shilling coins, the ID tags of a missing Italian soldier, an anonymous letter linking the man to the recent death of a former Land Girl. Would it not be human, perhaps even professionally correct, to just write things off as a lost cause? Concentrate his energies on the here and now - the burglars and wife-beaters and mid-level drug pushers who like every police jurisdiction across the United Kingdom, across the entire world, blighted Ravensby and District too? Just as I at that precise moment longed to get out of that godforsaken maze of the harbourside, feel the warmth of the sun once more on my face, wouldn't it be natural for Kubič to wish nothing more than to exit that investigative labyrinth in which he found himself trapped - one so full of dead ends, of necessary U-turns of ideas -  and step once more onto familiar ground?

And suddenly there it was - the burnt orange imprint of the sun behind my blinking eyes, the reassuring swoosh of traffic, that now-familiar clamour of booming local voices calling out in mutual greeting. Blowing out an exhale of relief, I reopened my eyes, squinted for several moments as they adjusted  to the longed-for flood of light.

What now, I wondered? What on earth was I supposed to do now?

The answer, I was surprised to realise, was a beautifully simple one. I would take another long stroll along the beach, that's what I was supposed to do. Have a look around the souvenir shops of the promenade, treat myself to something pretty - a necklace or new pair of sunglasses or a wind chime made of shells. I would find myself something good to eat - a plate of spaghetti and clams or some such thing, wash it down with a glass or two of fruity local wine. I would spend the day as a holidaymaker would, in short; after the turmoil of the last few days, the Lord knew I deserved a few hours of truce. And then the following day - Friday - I would fly home again. Spend the weekend catching up on missed paperwork, ironing my work clothes ready for the week ahead. I would remove this absurd mask I'd been wearing, settle myself once more into my true skin: Mary Rice, primary school headmistress.

Hadn't I done all that could have been expected of me? I, without technical resources, without investigative experience or know-how. Given these restrictions, hadn't I performed my filial duties commendably? Not only that, but hadn't I already gained all I'd ever really hoped to gain from this sad little adventure? I'd trodden in my father's footsteps, felt some faint lingering essence of the man take residence inside my soul.

Questions, yes. There were so many questions. But might it not be better to leave them in their current state, I wondered?  Nebulous, unanswered. Like life, like death, mysteries it was advisable to reflect on only briefly and infrequently at the risk of driving oneself insane.

Leave it Mary, I could hear a voice in my head urging. Just leave it be.

It was then that I became aware of it - Lucio's gaze turned patiently on me, as if waiting for some flicker of acknowledgement on my part that he was still there at my side. As I, he too had been silent and pensive those last few minutes, our meeting with Salvatore and Grazia seeming to have affected him almost as much as it had affected me.