disciple (ch. 7)
by Tom Stuckey
7
Late the next day, I received a message from F: He wants to meet you tonight. I figured it was Santino and told F to meet me at the hotel in a taxi. What do you wear to The Vatican? I decided to go with my smartest shirt, which wasn’t smart by Italian standards, and a pair of trousers. I slicked back my hair and wore some sunglasses, even though the sun was almost down, then took them off and called myself an idiot under my breath. Travelling by taxi was always pleasant at night through a city such as Rome, it permanently looked like a wedding cake, with delicate lighting around the architecture that I really could not get enough of. I looked across at F, who was wearing sunglasses and a smart suit, that he pulled-off as if it was a birth right. I messed up my hair and decided to be the Brit I was: unstylish, un-important, and a non-participant. “Nice suit,” I remarked to a dead silence, so I continued, “Have I done something to offend you?” With this, he opened up the flood gates that he had obviously been keeping shut. “Yes! I am so glad you asked. You see, it’s Thomas. I think I’m in love, and I think I should introduce myself to him. The other day I nearly did. They were in a gallery - but - I couldn’t. I got scared. She looks like a she wolf protecting him now. She sucks his fingers when they eat. She cleans his crumbs from his clothes. And you! You do nothing! You have been in a hotel room watching Love Island, and he is a saint in Rome! I want to be loved by him too!” So, he was in love with Thomas, and I was infatuated with Olivia. “I see. I’m sorry, F. I will be more attentive to the situation now. I promise.” His face was like a small boy’s: his little delicate mouth, smiling now as if free from further admonishment. I felt like a father who had neglected his child, and I had grown fond of F, as deeply as I could on hard ground. “We will see what we can do to introduce you to Thomas.” It was clear to me that I knew Thomas the most out of all the people of Rome; I knew the movements of his British soul. “OK, let's go and see what The Vatican want. OK?” F had moist eyes and, smiling, he wiped them and replied, “Yes.”
We were waved through after F explained our situation to the guard on duty, and our taxi pulled around to a rear entrance to one of the demi-glorious buildings; it really was like sandcastle buildings in the golden light of heaven. I did not go for the leaders of their religion, which seemed more to me like car salesmen or insurance brokers, but the buildings and churches were as God-like as can be. Through the entrance, we were met by the clown-looking, poker-faced guards, and we wondered if they still looked like this at home staring suspiciously at their wives. We were searched and led through to a grand room, with housed a desk and gold gilding all around, and paintings of ghosts (or angels); it seemed to be a level of consciousness in itself; a room reserved for ‘Gods chosen ones to organise the plebs.’ And it had great effect; seeing god in an alley, with addicts and prostitutes sucking and fucking with rats running around, was difficult to associate with God. It needed to be gold, old, and dreamlike, and the architect had succeeded at all three.
“OK, hello, I am Santino. Please, sit.” A large, round man pointed to the seats in front of his desk. “I’ve asked you here on the matter of a man we brought into our custody after some unusual behaviour.” We listened. Best not to say too much I thought.
“Yes,” I replied, making sure he knew he was dealing with me.
“Good, and the lawyer, he is not with you?”
“No.,” I replied, but suddenly thinking that would have been the professional move.
“OK, better he’s not. We can talk freely; you are in God’s house.” This made me feel the opposite and, as he said this, I noticed a second man that looked at first to be a painting in the background but, as he moved, came to life.
“This is Cardinel Paul. He will sit in, too.” Cardinel Paul looked like he would of been running a betting shop and cutting off fingers had he not been assigned by God to do otherwise.
“OK.”
“Now how are you associated with Thomas?” Better to keep it simple I thought.
“I am a friend of sorts.”
“Yet you paid for the lawyer anonymously?”
“Yes, I am a sort of distant friend. Just looking out for him.” The cardinal shuffled and shouted.
“CUT THE SHIT!”
I jumped a little, as if God had reached into the room and shook me.
“What do you mean?”
“I MEAN I HAVE NOT GOT TIME FOR YOUR SHIT! WHO IS HE, AND WHAT DO YOU WANT?!”
“I don’t want anything.”
“WHAT DO YOU WANT!”
I suddenly realised that they were nervous, more nervous of Thomas than I was of them, Really, what did I have to lose?
“OK, I want freedom to roam Rome, for Me, Fiorenzo and Thomas.” F tapped me on the arm “…and Olivia, the woman. I would also like some financial aid.” The cardinal whispered into the ear of his goon, who was clearly just the muscle, the old man was in charge, no doubt about it, God was mighty.
I realised that these people, apart from getting rid of us in some sort of hit, had to deal with us. They had seen Thomas; they knew he could be trouble; and something more important than money was at stake. Doubt. Faith. Wealth. They would need people to control him. Me.
“Something can be arranged. We will keep in touch,” the goon said, and then we left.
I felt good in the taxi on the ride back to the hotel. We were moving up in the world. F looked happy, too, and now his suit seemed somehow appropriate. Feeling myself, I said to him, “Will you take me shopping for some new clothes?” He smiled, “Yes, of course, we have the best tailors in all of the world here in Rome.” It was time for me to take my new role seriously.
*Read the next instqallment of Tom Stuckey’s new novella Disciple coming on March 10, 2025, at 6PM CST.
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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.