That Evening at the Sepolture
Detective Story : That Evening at the Sepolture
Short Story, By Prabir Rai Chaudhuri . All Copyright Reserved 2020
That night at the Sepolture
"It doesn't hurt."
"Be good, now."
“Really, it doesn’t hurt.”
"Okay, but don't worry. I called the ambulance, they'll be here soon."
"They won't be able to do anything, you know."
"Did you become a doctor, Emi?"
A hoarse laugh was the answer. Emi closed his eyes for a moment, as if keeping them open was an effort. “You have to promise me something.”
"What?"
"The children. You have to promise me that you will take care of the children."
“Sure I will,” Laszlo said. “As soon as they show up again. They can stay in my place, there’s room. Until I find them a more decent place, that is.”
"Of course. Thank you, Laszlo. I finally managed to soften you up, did you see?" Emi laughed again, but the laughter turned into a whooping cough.
“You’re a fucking faggot, you know that?”
“Yeah,” the other replied. “Do you remember when you called me that?”
“Of course I remember,” Laszlo laughed. “It was a few days ago.”
Silence fell in the dimly lit alley. The noises of the night seemed muffled, as if they did not want to disturb the two men. The sound of a siren came from afar, barely touching them and quickly fading into nothingness.
Eight days ago.
The child was dirty. After rummaging through the garbage bins for an hour, under the rain that had been falling continuously since the afternoon, that skinny little being, with ragged clothes that were one size too big, gave up. He opened the plastic bag and looked inside. Remains from the cleaning of some vegetables, tomatoes and celery for the most part. And the remains of a sandwich, taken a little while before on a sidewalk. A meager dinner, the one he would have shared with his sister, but at least they would have put something in their stomachs.
Walking briskly because of the cold, little Tommaso walked back toward the alley where Lara, a little girl a little younger than him, was waiting for him. They weren't actually siblings, but the two had decided to adopt each other. They lived there, in that dark and private street that was rarely used, in the back of a place, where every now and then, once or twice a week, someone would leave him a plate of pasta or pizza.
The children knew who the mysterious benefactor was. He was the owner of that strange place where people entered who were frightening just by looking at them.
Tommaso reached the alley but, before turning the corner, he waited in the darkness. Even though he knew that the two of them were hiding right behind it and had never bothered them, the boy was afraid of that man.
According to Lara, he was a dead man who, tired of being underground, had decided to come back to life. Tommaso, on the other hand, was convinced that he was some kind of demon. On one thing, however, the two children agreed: the man's face was not human.
It was the face of Death.
There was silence in the alley. Perhaps, Tommaso thought, the place was still closed. He looked around for the last time and then slunk toward the mass of crates and packing boxes thrown haphazardly on the ground to form a sort of shelter. He slipped under there and disappeared into the darkness.
“It's me,” he said to the darkness.
He found Lara curled up, shivering from the cold. He hugged her and the two of them stayed like that, huddled together to keep warm, listening to the rain pattering on the wood and the sounds of the city fading into the silence of the evening.
The place was closed.
The sign said this was Sepolture , one of the most macabre dark pubs in the city. If you wanted ocular or transdermal implants, extreme tattoos, skin plating or even genital edging, this was the place to go. But the two approaching weren't interested in body modification .
They had come for the man called the Dead .
Laszlo Nemet, Hungarian, arrived in Italy ten years earlier, master in the art of modifying the body. The face like a skull, stripped around the lips to half the jaw, with implants and tattoos that had distorted the face and impressed on the man a new identity.
The shutter of the Sepolture was down, but the two knew the second entrance at the back. In the pouring rain, soaked to the neck, they slipped into the alley.
Smells like urine and rotting organic stuff. Food scraps and paper on the floor. Piles of crates and boxes everywhere.
“This place is shit,” one of the two said.
“Who cares, knock,” the other ordered.
Three chimes and then silence.
Behind them, well hidden in the junk, Thomas hugged the little girl tighter, who also began to tremble with fear.
It doesn't do anything to you, it doesn't do anything to you.
He cradled her, stroking her hair from time to time, whispering comforting words to calm her.
They are leaving soon. They did not come for us.
The man knocked again. A noise, somewhere in there. Footsteps, a bored shuffling on the floor.
“Who is it?” a voice said from inside. “The place is closed tonight.”
“Open up, asshole,” came the reply.
The two heard Laszlo swearing, then a key turned in the lock and the door opened.
“Fuck, every time I see you you scare me, you know that?”
"What do you want, Mimmo? I've already paid."
Mimmo Mancone, right-hand man of Alfredo Fontini, head of the gang that ran the neighborhood racket. Together with his partner, Giulio Nicolini, known as Nico, they went to collect from place to place. Laszlo had had experience with the methods the two used.
“Give us two beers and I’ll tell you.”
While Laszlo filled the mugs, the two sat down at a table. Mimmo lit a cigarette in the meantime. “So, Morto,” he began, spitting out smoke, “Mr. Fontini is looking for someone who should come to you, someone who wants to have his skin flayed.”
“ Scarification ,” Laszlo corrected him, as he brought the beers to the table. “It’s called scarification when…”
“Who the fuck asked you his name?” Mimmo interrupted. “Some idiots come to your place, sniff something and you skin them with a knife. And they pay you too.”
"It's been a while since anyone's come in to get an incision. I'm just getting some tattoos done."
“And in fact I said this guy should come, not that he came.” Mimmo took a sip of beer, wiped his mouth with his jacket sleeve, then looked back at Laszlo. “When he comes, you’ll call us. Is that clear?”
Lazslo nodded. Fontini's two men had never asked him for information like that. He wondered what was going on. So far he had gotten by paying protection money, taking a few beatings when he was late with his payments, giving away pints of beer at will, and one day finding his car burned out. It was the first time he had had to rat out a customer.
“How do I recognize him?” he asked.
“Oh, that’s easy, Morto.” Mimmo emptied his mug, took a long drag on his cigarette, and looked straight into Laszlo’s eye sockets. “He’s coming to have a map carved into his back.”
Two days later.
The man who entered the Sepolture that afternoon seemed out of sorts. He was wearing a shiny raincoat, which covered an overweight body, a pair of black combat boots, and a scarf around his neck. His eyes had a shadow of eyeliner that made them look deeper. His arms and hands were adorned with bracelets and rings of costume jewelry, while a large stylized crucifix hung from his broad, clean-shaven neck. The man pushed open the door and headed for the counter, where a thin girl dressed in a leather top and a very short miniskirt was reluctantly mopping the floor.
“I'm looking for Mr. Nemet,” he began.
The girl barely looked up, twisted her mouth, and continued working. “He’s not here,” she said. “Who wants him?”
“My name is Emi and I live upstairs.”
“ Emi ?” the girl raised an eyebrow, while looking the man up and down as if he were from another planet.
« Emilio . Emi is my stage name. I would like to speak to Mr. Nemet, when can I find him? »
“I don’t know,” the girl said. “He should come over later for a tattoo, before the place opens.”
“Okay, thanks. I’ll come back.”
The man went out. The girl waited a few seconds, then took out her cell phone and called a number from the phone book. Two rings and the other end answered.
“Someone just came, he says he lives upstairs.”
"And what did he want?"
“I don’t know, he said he’ll be back later.”
“Okay, thanks. See you in a bit.”
The girl hung up and continued mopping.
Later.
"You're a fucking faggot! That's what you are."
“Calm down, Laszlo.”
“Yes, calm down, Mr. Nemet,” said the man who called himself Emi. “I came here because you haven’t answered any of my letters.”
"You came to snoop! What do you want with those children? Take them to your room?"
Emi’s eyes widened. “I advise you to be careful what you say, Mr. Nemet. Slander is still a crime in our country.”
"So what do you want?"
"I wrote and told you. You make too much noise at night. Soundproof the place. And do something about those two children."
"I don't have money for the place. And the kids aren't mine."
"They ran to hide in the alley once. Maybe they go to sleep there, among all that junk he keeps back there."
"I've seen them a couple of nights. Why don't you call social workers and take care of this yourself?"
“I already did, but they came during the day and found no one.”
"Then stop being a pain, faggot. Now get out of my way, I'm waiting for a customer."
“ Good evening ,” Emi said coldly. Then he turned and, red in the face with anger, left the place.
Laszlo cursed.
“You shouldn't have treated him like that.”
"But have you heard what he demands?"
"I mean what you called it. There was no need to reiterate that…"
"That he was a faggot? Who cares. Do you know who came to see me the other day? Those from Fontini."
"Still?"
"Yes, but this time they're looking for someone. They said he'll be here for a scarification."
"Fuck."
"Yeah. I have to warn them, then they'll take care of it."
That evening.
The man at the table was reading the menu, unable to decide to order. It was just after 9:00 PM and there were only a few customers at Sepolture , three friends finishing their beers and the long-haired man who was hesitating.
Manu passed by him several times, but without asking him anything. The guy made her uneasy. It was as if he was out of place , as if he didn't belong in their world. She couldn't even figure out what nationality he was and confided her thoughts to Lazlo.
“Maybe that’s what Fontini is looking for,” said the Dead Man.
"What will you do?"
“What they told me to do,” he replied. “I don’t want to get shot.”
The three boys left the place.
Manu looked back at the only remaining customer.
Outside, night had come early on that rainless winter day. Something moved under the pile of boxes and crates in the back room, but no one inside the room heard anything.
It doesn't do anything to you, it doesn't do anything to you.
The long-haired man put down his menu and looked toward the counter. Laszlo looked back, wondering who he was and what the guy wanted. Then the man stood up and came toward him.
“I’ve been told you’re the best at scarification,” he began. “And the work you’ve done on your face is a credible portfolio.”
Laszlo looked at the customer more closely. He was tall and dressed in a sort of black robe. On his feet he wore Gore-Tex combat boots and a strange medallion hung from his neck. Nothing to be surprised about. The people who frequented the Burials , especially those interested in transdermal implants or skin plating, were certainly not the usual type. But this one, Laszlo couldn't explain why, surpassed them all. Even his language was different. He didn't speak like the murderers who came to ask for his services.
“Come to the back,” Laszlo said. “The lab’s over there.”
Manu saw them walking away and felt his uneasiness growing.
“This is the drawing,” the man said. “I want it on my back.”
At those words Laszlo stiffened. It's him , he thought. It's the man looking for Fontini . He wondered why the neighborhood boss was so interested in that man and what the map represented. But it was none of his business, Laszlo knew that all too well. Just as he knew what happened to those who poked their nose into Fontini's affairs.
He took the paper the customer handed him and looked at it.
It was a map.
The map Mimmo had talked about.
Laszlo looked at it carefully. It was a drawing he had never seen before. A name, or so it seemed, stood out on a kind of scroll. It looked like a fantasy map, but different from the others he had tattooed. The names of the places - even if he did not recognize mountains, cities, rivers - were written in unknown characters. He remembered that years before a girl had a sentence in Quenya carved on her using Tengwar characters. But those symbols were different and seemed to have been invented from scratch.
“It’s very complex,” Laszlo said. “But it’s no problem. It takes a few sessions.”
“I don’t have time,” the man said. “You have to finish the job tonight.”
“Then we’d better start now,” Laszlo said. “But it’ll cost you a lot.”
"I had taken that into account. "
“Okay, lie down on the bed. I’ll be right back.”
He went out.
“What do we do?” asked Manu.
“I’ll call Mimmo,” Laszlo replied. “If they find out that he was here and I didn’t tell him, they’ll kill us both.”
He dialed the number on his cell phone. After one ring Mimmo answered.
“What do you have for me?” he asked.
“It's here,” Laszlo said.
"I arrive."
Half an hour later.
Tommaso looked at the piece of paper that the man in the habit had dropped. He had seen it come out of a little window in the laboratory, leap to the top of the alley wall—the child had always thought that wall was too high to climb over like that—and then jump down. Tommaso had become curious and had found the courage to come out of his hiding place and take that piece of paper. And now he was watching it by the light of a candle, at the bottom of that pile of boxes and junk.
Loud music was coming from the place, but it wasn't enough to cover the voices that could be heard from outside. The two brothers, however, didn't pay attention, enraptured by the drawings and writings in an unknown language that they had in front of them.
“Is this a treasure map?” Lara asked.
“I think so,” Thomas replied. “Someone who ran away lost it.”
A noise, somewhere nearby.
Lara squeezed Tommaso's arm.
It doesn't do anything to you, it doesn't do anything to you.
The boy hid the map in his jacket pocket. He hugged his sister.
They are leaving soon. They did not come for us.
Footsteps, in the darkness around them.
Then a light blinded them.
"Where?"
Mimmo, entering, headed towards Laszlo, while Nico waited at the door. The place was empty, but the music was loud. Manu was arranging some beer bottles and Laszlo was guarding the door that led to the laboratory.
He responded to the other with a nod, pointing behind him.
Mimmo walked up to the door, pushed it open and entered.
“There’s no one in here,” he said, “that guy’s taking the piss.”
The children shielded their eyes with their hands, trying to locate the source of that unusual brightness. Lara hugged her brother even tighter.
“Hello, little ones.” The voice didn’t sound evil. “I think you two have something I lost.” The light dimmed and the man smiled at two pairs of eyes watching him in terror.
Tommaso recognized him: it was the one who had escaped from the laboratory.
“Why did you run away before?” the boy asked him.
"Because someone in there betrayed me."
"Was it the one with the death face?"
The man nodded. “Yes, that’s right,” he replied. “Can I have my map back now?”
“But is it a treasure map?” asked Thomas.
“No, but the places he shows are the greatest treasure there is.”
Outside, the voices grew louder. The music faded.
The man instinctively turned in that direction, then turned back to the children. “It’s dangerous to stay here,” he whispered. “For me and for you. We have to go, there’s no more time. Tommaso, take your sister’s hand and give the other to me.”
The light went out.
Tommaso wondered how it had lit up before. He was about to wonder how the man knew his name, when he heard a shot and everything around him immediately became uncertain. He felt strangely light. Lara's hand threatened to crush his.
Then he fell into a kind of confused sleep, full of bizarre dreams and sounds he had never known before.
Meanwhile, at the Burial Ground.
Laszlo entered, joined immediately by Nico. “He was here,” he said. “He can’t have escaped, there’s only that little window that looks out the back and…”
“And you let it slip out from under your nose, you idiot!” Mimmo shouted. “Come on, let’s go out.”
The three of them went out the back door.
“It’s not here,” Julius said.
«And he couldn't have even run away into the street, the boys would have stopped him.»
“Then he climbed over the wall.”
"How did he do it, you idiot? He must be four meters tall. What's behind those boxes?"
“Nothing,” Laszlo replied. “It’s just stuff I put away there,” he added, fearing for the two children he knew were hiding back there.
“Go and check, Nico,” Mimmo ordered his companion.
Nicolini was about to move, when voices came from inside the club. "Who the fuck is that?"
“I don’t know,” Laszlo said. “It’s a public place, if you haven’t noticed.” But he immediately regretted mocking Giulio. The man punched him in the side, knocking out his breath and doubling him over.
"Be less of an asshole and go see who's bothering me."
Laszlo took a deep breath and, rubbing his side, went back into the room.
Inside he saw Emi talking to Manu. What the hell does he want now?, he thought.
“You,” Emi said, seeing Laszlo and pointing a finger at him. “I’ve told you about this damned music several times.”
"This is not the right time, trust me."
“It’s time to end this, Mr. Nemet,” Emi continued aloud. “I…”
"And who the fuck is this?" Mimmo Mancone, hearing them arguing, came in.
“A neighbor,” Laszlo replied.
Mimmo pulled out his gun and pointed it at Emi. “Shut up, you faggot, and go out the back,” he ordered. “You too,” he then said to Laszlo. “You, on the other hand, be a good girl and close the place. I’ll tell you when to reopen it.”
Emi blanched, but followed Laszlo out without another word. Manu pulled down the shutter.
“Someone was hiding in there,” Giulio said when the others came out. “I saw scraps of food and toys.”
“The children…,” Emi let slip.
“What children?” Mimmo asked. “What children are you talking about?”
“They’re two little homeless kids who occasionally take refuge in the back here.”
"Then maybe they saw everything."
“I don't think so, Mimmo,” Laszlo tried to say.
"How can you say that? Huh? They saw where your client ran off to and maybe that map too."
“Mimmo, try to think,” Laszlo said. “If that guy managed to climb over the wall, how could two kids do it? They come here every now and then, who knows where they decided to spend the evening today.”
“The Dead Man is right,” Nico said.
"Where do I find those children?"
“Leave those children alone, they have nothing to do with your stories!” Emi shouted.
“Stay out of this, faggot,” Mimmo said, cocking the hammer of his Beretta.
“I repeat, Mr. Mimmo, they are children and I don’t think they saw anything.”
"I told you not to get involved and above all not to mention my name."
«But shoot this fatso, Mimmo, what the fuck are you waiting for?»
“Shut up, Nico, don’t piss me off even more.”
"Mr. Mimmo, I believe we can reach an agreement, if you..."
Mimmo shot. Emi was thrown back and a red stain soaked his shirt at the height of his abdomen.
“What the fuck have you done, you bastard?” Lazslo approached Emi, lifted his head, resting it on his lap and pressed his wound with his other hand.
"I warned you, asshole. Now back to us. Where are the kids?"
«Fuck you, Mimmo.»
"You're not made of heroic stuff, Lazslo. You're only made of the tramp you are."
"Fuck, Mimmo, the shot must have been heard all the way downtown. Why didn't you use a silencer?"
“Nico, if you don’t shut up, the next one will be for you.” Mimmo turned to his companion and his look was enough to silence him. Then he turned back to Laszlo. “We’ll see each other again, Morto. Count on it. Mr. Fontini never leaves his issues unresolved. And this, asshole, is an unresolved issue.”
Mimmo put the gun back in the holster inside his jacket and walked away. It took Giulio a few seconds to realize that the other was leaving. He frowned at Laszlo and then ran after his companion.
Laszlo took his cell phone from his pocket and dialed 118. They answered immediately. He gave the address and described what had happened, but he spoke of an attempted robbery. The ambulance would arrive soon, the woman who answered the call promised. And with the ambulance, the Police or the Carabinieri.
Emi shook her head and opened her eyes. She looked at Laszlo. “It doesn’t hurt,” she said.
Continues…
The Man Who Came From Nowhere
The flames rose against the dark sky in a furious pyramid of energy, wavering and trembling as if gripped by a devouring fever. From the pile of crates and boxes came the crackling sounds of wood breaking, surrendering to the fury of the fire.
Lying on the ground, his head still resting on Laszlo's inert body, Emi had watched Nico set fire to all that junk piled up in a heap.
The children's refuge.
Why didn't they come out from under there? , she wondered, as tears fell silently in that violent night.
The images hit him again, scenes the man had never experienced before. Mimmo ordering the two children to come out, Nico coming back in but unable to see them, even though he could feel their presence, Laszlo railing against Mimmo and the butt of the gun hitting his head, the anger of Mimmo Mancone, finally, who ordered his friend to burn the hideout.
The screams that Emi heard – they were screams, I heard them, it was her, it was the little girl screaming from the depths of desperation – destroyed the last defenses of her conscience and she fainted.