disciple (ch. 4)
by Tom Stuckey
4
I was lost. F’s last message had said that they were heading towards the Vatican, and instead of getting a taxi I had wrongly thought it would be nice to walk. Walking seems to be so much more pleasant when there is no destination, no time, and no being lost. I walked down into the Fontana di Santa Maria with good optimism; these little squares of ancient Europe always bring a sense of calm, and with the little modern chemist inside the old brick work of one of the buildings, it added a sense that anything would be possible to overcome.
Google Maps said it would be an hour’s walk. The metro would have been 10 minutes; I could have seen the Colosseum, the Foro Romano and then met them at The Vatican City, but I was lost and stood outside a Black Angus Steakhouse. Luckily, I picked up a sign for The Metro and abandoned my plans to the underground. Before entering the archways of the Vittorio Emanuele Metro, a text came through from F: All the dogs of Rome follow him. It was a little confusing even from F. I tried to message him back, but with each step that took me deeper underground the signal faded. The platform was empty, and all that could be heard was the faint sound of wind forced through tunnels by distant trains. The walls were painted red; there was no graffiti, only a long, yellow line, where a large, old woman started to walk, giving me focus. She kept walking until she reached me. “Stai attento amico mio.” She looked like a colourful Gypsy, and when she held my hand I felt death run through my body. “No comprende,” I startled, but could not move my hand from hers no matter how hard I tried. Looking into her eyes was like looking into those of a person performing the last rights. She wanted my youth, my light, I had to find Thomas. The train arrived at speed and the wind rushed up the tunnel and blew me free, I jumped onto the train and to the safety of the tunnel, my palm sweating and my heart thumping.
Walking out into the sun, The buildings of Vatican City looked like an angel sleeping on its side, her body slender, wrapping her legs around us; we were all her children. There were dogs everywhere, and they all barked. I felt relief when I managed to get the text to F: Where are you, I am here and you are not. It was the longest time that he hadn’t replied and sure enough, when the text finally came through, I finally understood why: Signore Thomas has been arreste by Polizia Vaticana. That was not good, another message following quickly behind: The dogs of Rome gave him away. So, that was it—Day 1 and he’d been arrested. I thought quickly and with all of my creativity. First, I would need F back at the hotel to translate: Meet me back at the Hotel. He quickly replied: It’s my fault. I’m stupid. I should have helped. He needed reassurance: Pull yourself together man and come to the Hotel NOW. He replied with a Broken Heart emoji.
Back at the hotel, the sun was going down and the sky was a Roman blood red. I needed a lawyer (well, Thomas did), but that meant we all did; if they caught on to who he was, there could be trouble, but I couldn’t do anything until F arrived. I paced the room and imagined Thomas in a cell, but I was positive he was handling it better than I could have. He would no doubt be sitting still and looking out from the bars the same red sky in complete acceptance of his situation.
F arrived as the last of the red disappeared into the black ink well. He was noticeably upset and had obviously been crying. “Fiorenzo, I need you to concentrate, OK?” He nodded and looked up, the first time since he had entered the room. “I am going to need you to translate for me, OK?” Again he nodded. I searched for a lawyer on my phone and found one that fit the bill; he was the trashy kind and perfect for this sort of job. I rang and there was no answer, but after a minute or two my phone rang, and I handed it to F. “OK, tell him we have a friend in jail, and we need someone to go down there and represent him, and that it will be anonymously paid for via bank transfer.” He nodded and spoke for the first time in a fluent, non-imbecilic way, seeming like a different man. F filled in the rest and, after he hung up, he went back into slow mode. “He is going to go to the Asylum.” “Who?” I replied. “The Signore.” “OK good.”
After an hour that seemed like a life time, my phone rang, and I handed it back to F. I could tell by his facial expressions that it was not without hope. “He says that he has been taken to the Asylum now, but Signore thinks he can get him out.” This was good news, and I was positive that we could get Thomas out in good time, maybe even tomorrow. The Vatican police, no doubt, had not known what to do with him, and I bet they had seen their fair share of god men coming to the city. That being said, I was also worried that he would, now, not go unnoticed, especially in Rome.
*Read Chapter 2 of Tom Stuckey’s new novella Disciple coming on February 17, 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.