We jogged over to the old man’s car and climbed in. It was dusty and battered and smelled of fish. The seats were torn and the steering wheel held together with duct tape, but it rattled into life at the first attempt and Joe steered it through the town as fast as he could, with me bracing myself against the dashboard. Only one headlight worked, giving us a narrow view of the road ahead. When we reached the open road, Joe ramped the car through its gears, and it rattled and bumped, gaining speed. We rose up the headland spine and, ahead, I glimpsed a pair of headlights zigzagging smoothly along the coast road ahead of us.

‘Is that Francesco?’ I asked.

‘Looks like it,’ said Joe.

He put his foot down and we reached the billboard junction perhaps two minutes after the Alfa Romeo and joined the coast road. I held tight to the seat; Joe was gripping the steering wheel, his face close to the windscreen, concentrating on the road.

We turned tightly round a bend and suddenly Joe slammed on the brakes and we stopped with a great jolt that threw me forward with such violence I hit my face on the dashboard before I bounced back.

‘What?’ I cried, my hands clasped over my nose. ‘Why did you stop like that?’

Joe was already out of the car, moving towards something that I could not see. I followed him, blood dripping between my fingers, and then I saw what Joe had seen. The Alfa Romeo was crashed into the side of the mountain.

58

The sports car was skewed across the road, its nose pressed against a sapling that was broken in the middle, falling crooked across its bonnet. The lights on the passenger side were broken, glass fragmented on the road, but the driver’s-side lights were still on, illuminating the scene like a chiaroscuro painting.

Francesco was standing to one side, his hands on his knees, panting; he’d been sick, strings of saliva trailed from his mouth. Valentina was kneeling awkwardly on the road, cradling a gaunt figure in her arms. It was an old man, and he was wearing pyjama bottoms, a piece of rope tied around the waist, rubber clogs: Gabriele Arnone.

Gently, Joe prised my fingers from my face. He took off his T-shirt, scrunched it up and gave it to me to hold to my nose. Then he took out his phone and as he called for help he went to Francesco, put his free arm around him, held the boy’s head to his chest.

I headed towards Valentina and Gabriele. I stepped on something pulpy and recoiled in disgust, but when I looked down, I saw that tomatoes had been spilled on the road, that was all.

Valentina was holding Gabriele upright as best she could.

I crouched beside her.

‘He was in the road!’ she said. ‘He was right there in the middle of the road!’