Free A Season for the Dead by David Hewson

another memory too, an inexplicable flaw in the picture: that as the nun spoke there were tears, thick and salty, running down her cheeks, so slowly, so ponderously, she resembled the pale, static figure of the Virgin Mary in the chapel whose face was stained with drops that were mother of pearl, not human at all.
    Sara Farnese glanced at her watch and wondered at the power of these memories. Sometimes they stood in the way of the present, she thought, easy crutches on which to lean as a substitute for decision and action. What would Sister Annette make of her present existence? Sara knew the answer and did not wish to dwell on it.
    It was now 2:27 and the press were still making a noise beyond the windows. She was sick of the notes being pushed through the door of the apartment block. She had taken the phone off the hook. Still they waited. Still they haunted her.
    She put on a pair of sunglasses and walked to the window. Outside, in the narrow lane, cameras flashed, voices rose, TV crews scrambled to take advantage of this rare appearance by the woman they all wanted to see. A woman the media was already painting as some kind of black temptress, the guilty party to an affair in which one lover—a married one at that—murdered his wife and his ex-mistress’s new lover in the most bloody of fashions.
    People walking down the main road hesitated, stopping to stare at this commotion in the shadow of the Pope’s thoroughfare. Would they be any more forgiving? Would they even wish to understand? Sara doubted it. The best she could hope for from the masses was a lack of interest, which was unrealistic given the curiosity the media was creating in the story.
    At 2:29, Sara Farnese walked into her bedroom and unlocked a compartment in the small bedside cabinet. The phone still bore the sticker from the mobile operator in Monaco. Calls made using it were, he’d said, untraceable, unlike those from Italian models. He had one too. If they just used the pair of mobiles, at times they agreed upon beforehand, everything would be fine. No one need ever know.
    She turned on the handset, waited and, sure enough, at half past it rang.
    He wasn’t angry with her, not this time. Sara Farnese felt grateful to hear his voice, which was full of warmth and reassurance, telling her everything would be fine, just to keep calm, keep quiet and never say more than was necessary, particularly to the police.
    She cried a little. It was impossible to halt the tears. She told him too about the noisy animals on her doorstep and the way the thought of them kept invading her head.
    “I’ll send you a gift,” he said.
    They spoke for no more than four minutes, four minutes in which she felt herself restored to the world, one which Sister Annette would have recognized, even if the old nun found parts of it questionable.
    Just after three Sara walked tentatively to the window, standing far enough back to be able to see without being seen. The street-cleaning vans had arrived in the Borgo Pio, a day before schedule, even though the place was still free of litter, thanks to the cruel August weather which was chasing people from the city. Two vans were working their way along the road, spraying water everywhere, big circular brushes turning from beneath their bellies. Then they turned into Vicolo delle Palline, a place no cleaning truck had ever visited before, and made straight for the crowd beneath the window. The media mob scattered, clutching their cameras, cursing as the vehicles ploughed remorselessly through their midst.
    Sara Farnese watched from behind the curtain and wished she could laugh. There had been more generous gifts but none so welcome or well timed. Nevertheless, this unwanted attention would return.
    The crowd began to reassemble. Through it came two now-familiar figures, one large, one smaller and slender. She recognized the policemen from the day before and began, very carefully, to assemble her thoughts.

9

    Jay Gallo sat on the dry