disciple (ch. 3)
by Tom Stuckey
3
I was alarmed to discover that our arrival in Rome had not gone undiscovered. I was sure, upon the second time seeing the grey man at our hotel, that it was the same man who had watched Thomas closely upon arrival at the airport. He blended into the crowd, and Thomas had not seen him, but I had; he was so grey that he could of been made entirely of cigarette ash. He also had the look of a devotee, either that or a madman who could not bear the thought of salvation. Either way, it had put a jolt into the first visions of Rome, which were, otherwise, belle. That being said, I didn’t really feel like I had fully arrived; I was still seeing the old buildings and twisted-low hanging trees as if from a film. It was the imaginary Rome, colourful shots of a skilful photographer, that was still watched from the desolate wind torn hills of abattoir country. My mind could not yet make this beautiful city its own, yet. The women looked so alive that they all looked like ancestral mothers, and the men adored them as such, with reverence. I could see why Thomas wanted to come here; I just hoped it was for a long enough stay that the oil on my skin would turn into olives. I had travelled so little before now. Sometimes with work, I would have to go to a dingy, little town in Germany to speak with some of the people at the abattoirs there; it was so horrific that I managed to block out each screaming visit, including the name of the town which sounded like a madman’s name, something like Frankenstein. Rome, Rome, Rome, it sounded deep in the soul, ROME was like HOME.
I thought it best to speak with the ashen man, let him know that I knew of his presence and could see what his intensions were. At the Mercure Rome Centro Hotel, everyone looked out of place like tourists; therefore, no one was noticeable. They also managed to design the blandest hotel in Rome. At breakfast, I looked past Thomas toward the table in the corner at the far end of the dining room and decided to go over. “May I sit down?” He looked disturbed as if from a trance. “Yes, OK.” “Don’t look at Thomas so much. You constantly stare, and he will eventually start to suspect you.” “Who are you?” “I am a fellow devotee.” He looked young, maybe in his twenties, a little immature still—the look of an idiot with blind faith. “A faithful follower just like you, but you are too obvious in the way you look at him. You need to hang back more and work on you technique. How did you come to know of him?” He had already begun to pretend to look out of the window. “I had a dream, and in the dream there was a Signore who looked like him at the airport, so I went there day after day until he came. I knew he would, the dream was so real that I knew he would. When I saw his eyes, I knew I had to follow him.” “Yes, his eyes are remarkable. OK, this is what we are going to do, have you got a phone?” He nodded to confirm he did. “We are going to work as a team, since it will be better that there are two of us, that way one of us can rest, or we can swop the tail so that he does not become aware of a constant presence. OK?” He nodded, and I gave him my number. “I am Mark.” I shook his hand. “Fiorenzo,” he replied.
I wasn’t back in my room for more than a few minutes before my phone started buzzing. It was Fiorenzo. He is eating scrummy eggs. I didn’t know what to tell him other than that he did not have to tell me every detail about St Thomas, but before I could, another came through. and he looks so happiness. It was true, Fiorenzo was an imbicile, but he was very committed and would be of great use—immediately so—as I could get some much-needed sleep. I didn’t have the heart to criticise him; it would be like criticising the small part of myself, the innocent part that over the years got badly handled, until it ended up all bent and twisted out of shape. I simple replied, Good job F, and drifted off to sleep.
I was in the Colosseum, and there were big dark birds in the sky, vultures maybe, so I ran as fast as I could through the streets. They followed me. They knew I would tire soon enough. I woke to the sound of my phone vibrating; there were 20 messages, but I decided to just read the most recent ones, Thomas has looked into the eyes of everyone he has met, one belle stopped in the road and was nearly kills. It made me happy to know Thomas was alright, that he was alive in every way possible, and that he had someone to watch over him. I replied, You are a good man F. I will come and meet you just let me know where.
Having more luxury time, I decided to take a shower. It was a large shower, nearly as big as the room itself, and the steam filled it quickly until I couldn’t see my hands, feet, or the walls. A vision of a beautiful, slender, olive women flashed before my eyes, and it was if she was holding my hand, leading me into the clouds, where the big birds of prey circled. She kissed my lips and licked up my legs and looked me straight in the eyes. I didn’t want to leave this room, ever.
But I did, and walked out into the streets of Rome to go and find Fiorenzo and St Thomas.
*Read Chapter 2 of Tom Stuckey’s new novella Disciple coming on February 10, 2025, at 6PM CST.
Photo of Tom Stuckey
BIO: Tom is a writer from Devon in England. His work can be found at A Thin Slice of Anxiety, Bristol Noir, Nut House Press, and Pulp Magazine. He is the author of The Canary in the Dream is Dead and The Sun Marches upon Us All. Learn more about Tom Stuckey at www.tomstuckey.com.