8305.

A PIN.

Joe’s shoulders sag in relief. He has a PIN. He’ll go to a cashpoint, one without CCTV, and use it. Withdraw a hundred euros, to make it look like William was headed somewhere. Less risky. Less chance of a person asking him what he’s doing. Less chance of getting caught out.

It has taken Joe half an hour, so far, to find a cashpoint without CCTV. He has bought an ice-cream and taken many crap photos, trying to look like a wandering tourist. He would never be this person in normal circumstances, has no interest in weird fucking nude monuments and ruins, not now that they have owned the villa for several years. He’s done the touristy stuff.

He stands, now, scanning the bottom of the buildings. No cashpoints. A Jack Russell being pulled along too quickly by a dickhead owner catches his attention. He stares at it. It has a very obvious – to Joe – luxating patella. A tell-tale hind-limb skip, which makes it trot like it is a rabbit, not a dog. It probably needs an operation on its knee. Joe watches it for a few seconds more, thinking of saying something, but stops himself when he sees a cashpoint in the distance without any CCTV around it and BANCOMAT written in blue above. It’s time to focus, not to draw attention to himself.

He hurries over and inserts William’s card into the machine with a satisfying plastic zip. The machine prompts in Italian for the PIN. 8305, he types dutifully, then waits.

PIN ERRATO, the machine says, with three horrifying beeps. Joe’s shoulders are up by his ears immediately. His head drops. ‘Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, piss, fuck.’

The machine says something in Italian. He sees BANCO. Communicate, is that? Communicate with your bank?

Joe feels like his body is swarming with bees. His knees are buzzing. He can barely stand up straight. He staggers away from the cashpoint, past the luxating dog, and back to the bus stop, the wallet in his pocket feeling radioactive.

The PIN was probably for another card, or an old one. How could he be so stupid? Why did he assume it was for the debit card?

He’s fucked it, he thinks. He is fucked. They can’t afford to make mistakes, and yet he has. He flags down the bus, his arm feeling weak, and collapses into the air-conditioned seat, his head in his hands. After a few seconds, he stops himself. He’s got to look normal. He straightens up, looking around him, then sees the CCTV, an unblinking eye at the front of the bus, trained exactly on him. For a moment – just one – he is certain he will see this footage. Exhibited, somewhere, as evidence, at Frannie’s trial.

17.

Now

Jason’s Office, late February, 5.00 p.m.

Another Tuesday in endless February.

I am waiting to see Jason. Five o’clock in his anteroom. Both heaters are on, pumping stinging hot air on to my knees. I’m glad of it. Even out here, I can smell his room. Old books, coffee.