Section Twenty One

She glanced again at the map, then turned it over, letting her eyes sweep the Bay of Naples, tracing the outline of Pròcida with her finger. It looked like a lion cub doing tricks on its hind-legs. It seemed like a friendly place.
Heat seemed to rise from the floor as she lay there. Atoms of water seemed to fizz from her skin. The picture of the island started to rotate in her mind - opening and closing its mouth, moving its legs and its tail - and she shook her head to clear it; stepped off the bed to go to the window, her bare feet scraping on grit underneath.
She went on tiptoe to avoid as much of it as possible.
She stepped down the beach, intermittent clumps of shingle crunching beneath her toes.
She reached the water's edge. Stepped in a bit further.
The water scurfed and scraped around her shins.
She pushed her nakedness further into the sea. It was not warm. She allowed the water to rise slowly until it was up to her waist, until it was in her a little.
She flipped to the horizontal. Plunged her hands in. The water stickied and shivered away from them. Tiny droplets of bubbled foam burst to the surface. Her breath froze down and was trapped for an instant. She floated a while. Gasped. Fought for her breath back. Held it when she had it.
Down-broke the surface. Head below the calm. Currents and eddies of watered voices surrounded her.
She kicked into a glide. Fully underwater. Long glide. Pulled down. Got into rhythm. Long slow strokes. Pull down together. Scissors-kick forcing the water back. Deep. Crisp. Even. And again. Long glide. Slow steady strokes. Leave the shallows behind.
Clean unsullied water. Carve a piece to jettison.
Next to her. From nowhere. To the left. A blur of ruffled water.
...a dark presence besides her...
She quickened her stroke. Broke into busy water - kicked through rockpools of murmurs, shoals of whispers, song-currents twining beneath her.
The unannounced blur stayed with her. Stroke for stroke.
...the uninvited guest...
She pulled quick and hard. Jerky. Made more splash. Made less progress. Made more noise. The wraith, anchored a double-arm-length to her left, responded exactly.
...closer but never getting closer...
She made move to shift it. Shimmied to left then right. Shimmied to right then left. RIGHT. (Tried to escape it.) It moved towards. LEFT. (Tried to confront it.) It moved away from. She looked left. The coagulated mass of bubbles was still strung-along.
...a dark presence besides her...
Elongated, more massive at the front, arm-heavy, like a water-coffin closer to her at the front because wider at the front hence seeming to be getting closer but never getting closer gliding parallel but never quite being parallel.
...the uninvited guest...
She lost symmetry. She splashed through, neck wrenched to the left, tail waggling in a flounder.
The bubbled-up echo tail-waggled in sympathy.
...closer but never getting closer...
The exertion started to tell. Over-heating in spite of the water. A hurling mass of arms and legs. Starting to break up.
Atoms of her fizzed off her skin and bubbled off into the water.

Split into particles, just bubbles of herself, sucked in a haze of bubbles into the dark, into huge underground chambers, clumped into body-chunks, grossed-up into un-severed pieces, dolloped onto oil-soaked, red-hot coils of linguini on white plates in glass tanks with large looming grotesque faces peering down at her, lips licked, eyes lit up. Giant pepper-mills waved above her, floating crushed fragments of the spice down to her.
She shrank away from them, oozing into the hydra-slime of the linguini, her head bumping against cloves of garlic. They rolled away, shrank against the filaments of pasta, stuck on, bulbous-headed, gaped open, pointed teeth exposed, nipping at her, pecking, reddening the plate with her blood.

She woke up sweating and shivering. Her eyes felt red-raw. -Oh you're dead, you're dead. She leapt from the bed and towelled herself down feverishly to warm up. She dressed quickly. Got her things together.
She descended the stairs. Passport in hand. Newly-strapped-on moneybelt clenching her waist. Rucksack on her shoulder. It was heavy, but not that heavy. She was pleased to be rid of the holdall for a while.
The woman was back behind her desk. "Ah, signorina. I have been consulting the registration book. Yes, he was here, but we thought he was English, not Welsh. He was not the one who taught me. He didn't stay long, but he still received the mails here. My boy, Antonio, knew him. It was too - caro - too expensive here. Antonio took his mail for him. I don't know where. Yes, now I remember quite well. He was diabetico. We had a problem with his - how you say - siringe ipodermici?"
"Hypodermic syringes."
"Exactly. Where to put them. I didn't want people to think we had - drug addicts - staying here."
"Yes, he was always particular about not re-using them. Would it possible to speak to Antonio, please?"
"He is not here. Back this evening. You can speak then."
"Very well, Signora. Until then."
"Oh, signorina. Passport, please."
"I'm sorry." Handed it over.
The door clicked behind her. She was still woozy, product of doze-off sleep. Biological clock all a'kilter. Strange news confronted.
Sun-streaks clapped-on through to her brain. She retraced her steps, observant this time, doing a zig-zag skip, rucksack securely on both shoulders, headphones wedged back into the ears.
-What next? -What happened next? -God, why couldn't your sister have given me these things a bit earlier? -Then I wouldn't be hacking across this place, turning your life into a soap opera. -Don't miss the next exciting episode! -Ah, my lover, my ex-lover, things seem to be getting a little too exciting. -What's next with you? -Make way for another dose of voyeurism. She pressed the button and listened in.

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