‘You know how I worry about you when you’re not at home! You shouldn’t have come all this way without me. You’re supposed to be resting, baby.’ He shook his head and pulled the kind of face a parent pulls when a toddler does something stupid. ‘I phoned my aunt. I said: “Auntie Irma, I’m so worried, I don’t know where Valentina is!” and she told me she’d seen you being dropped off at the villa. She told me you’d been here for hours. Why didn’t you let me know where you were, baby? You know I always like to know.’

Valentina didn’t answer. Over her shoulder, Vito sent a look of pure malice towards Joe.

‘Get in the truck, baby,’ Vito said to Valentina. ‘Come on, kid,’ he beckoned Francesco, ‘you too!’

‘I want to stay here,’ Francesco said sullenly.

‘No,’ Valentina said sharply.

‘It’s time you were off, buddy,’ Joe said to Francesco. ‘Go with your mama. We’ll see you soon.’

Francesco scowled, but he approached the truck and climbed into the back. Vito gave him a push as he went in.

‘Francesco…’ I called.

Valentina turned to me and shook her head.

I stepped back.

‘There,’ said Vito, helping Valentina up into the truck. ‘The family’s back together again. Everyone where they should be.’ He slammed the door shut so hard that the truck rocked. Valentina’s face was in profile, staring straight ahead.

Vito started the engine and a plume of smoke gusted from the truck’s exhaust like a great black fart.

‘Bastard,’ Joe murmured.

I took hold of his hand.

56

Heavy clouds loitered ill-temperedly in a gunmetal grey sky, glowering over the sea, turning it a threatening colour. The birds fell silent. Heat was trapped between the land and the clouds. Joe tramped off to be by himself somewhere, to dwell on his hatred for Vito. I had a headache. My vision was disturbed by a silvery shadow, like mercury on a mirror. For a moment, I imagined it was one of the ghost children, Daniel perhaps, but soon realised it was only the onset of a migraine.

I went upstairs, took a couple of tablets with a glass of water and lay down on Anna’s bed. I picked up the diary and flicked through it, searching for entries I hadn’t yet read. I found a sweet little sketch of Anna sitting on the same bed I was on now, with her back against the bed frame. Matilde’s work, I guessed; it had been executed with the same lightness of touch as the figures drawn on the wall behind the bed.

I touched the drawing gently with the tip of my finger and the villa played its time trick on me; the bed, the pencil mark, the diary, all these things were always here, only the people came and went.