Free The View From the Tower by Charles Lambert Page B

curled up beneath her, refusing to lie down, afraid she might fall asleep when there is still so much she has to do. She doesn’t know where to begin, her mind is a wiped slate, so blank she has a sudden sense of panic, as though she is literally being sponged away.
    When the landline rings on the other side of the room, she bites the side of her tongue in shock. The taste of blood filling her mouth, she picks up the receiver. She hears a woman’s voice she doesn’t recognise repeat her name, the pitch insistent, hectoring. She drops the receiver, not on the phone where it belongs but on the pad, beside a number and a date, written in Federico’s hand, a doodle. The voice continues, the furious buzz of an insect trapped in a jar. Her name and a plea to be answered, a plea that is also, it seems to Helen, a threat. It is 7 o’clock. The news will be starting. Now everyone will know. Friends and others. Some people, it occurs to her, will be pleased. She pulls the pad free of the receiver and stares at the doodle, a flower in a vase; Federico must have made it the day before. What was she doing while he drew this? Who was he talking to? Someone she knew? She doesn’t recognise the number. The date is for next week. Next Tuesday. A week today. The doodle blurs. Eventually, her hand shaking a little, she puts it down.
    And now what shall I do? she asks herself. She starts to cry again, slow effortless tears. Not even her home is safe; she has the sense of being hounded by savage beasts, as though beyond the door there is no longer the familiar hall, the worn-down stairs, the furled umbrellas waiting to be used; as though she has become detached from that. The world seems hostile and unknown. She should feel safe here, in her own sitting room, surrounded by all the objects they have chosen, yet how empty the flat is without him, how silent and indifferent; although he was never home by this time. He never gets back before nine, he works too hard. Normally, that dreadful word . She turns on the television and makes herself a snack, some olives that Massimo’s mother has sent them, a handful of cashew nuts; she pours herself a glass of wine or beer, and sits on the sofa to watch the news. She waits for Federico. Normally . But this evening, she isn’t hungry and doesn’t want to pour herself a drink. She is afraid that once she starts she won’t be able to stop, because normally it is the thought of Federico finding her drunk that stops her after the first two glasses. And she can’t believe that might not happen.
    Sitting in the car on the way here, she planned to call Giacomo as soon as she arrived, ask him to come over. But she realises now, alone in the home she’s made with Federico that what she wants to do, more than anything in the world, is to talk not to Giacomo but to Federico, and she won’t be able to. As if for the first time that day, she understands that she’ll never be able to talk to Federico again. But this time it is worse. Before this, some part of her has told her that he’ll be back, that he’s away on business, but he’ll be back; he always comes back. And now this part has fallen silent and she feels a flush of pain and rage, so strong it takes her breath away. Who has done this to me? To us? She stares at the phone, which has started to make a curious noise, then replaces the receiver on the handset. Immediately the ringing begins. She lifts it to her ear. It is Giulia, Federico’s mother.
    “I’ve been trying to get hold of you for hours, Helen,” she snaps. “Your mobile’s turned off.”
    “I couldn’t stand it any longer, Giulia.” Talking again, Helen tastes the blood in her mouth. “I was being pestered by journalists.”
    “You’ve only just arrived home?”
    “Ten minutes ago. The police brought me back in the end. I’ve been at the hospital all afternoon. I had to identify him, Giulia.”
    “How dreadful for you. You aren’t still with that Mura man, I