disciple (ch. 9)
by Tom Stuckey
9
It was the clearest of mornings as we took a taxi to Sartoria Carbone that was located in the centre of Rome in front of The Vatican Museums. The place was empty but for the mannequins that wore the half-finished suits made for some of the men of Rome. Mr Carbone was there to meet us personally and welcomed us for a private fitting. So, this was it: We were free men in Rome, now, and known. There would be no bills from here on out and free things, like suits and maybe watches, and even women would be made available. No, we would need to stay focused. Mr Carbone ushered me with respect into the positions that he wanted me in, as F gave an occasional nod to confirm any translating. I thought how exciting it would be to be seen by Olivia in these new suits because there would have to be more than one; there would need to be one for every eventuality, of course. It was a far cry from the wool factories of abattoir country, but I wondered if some of that wool had come from there )probably not, I concluded, as they almost certainly have the finest Italian sheep here, probably in Sicily). I looked into the mirror and saw a person that I did not recognise. It was uncomfortable at first, and my mind tried hard to reject what it did not understand. Still, the lines of the fine, woollen suit showed off my good features. My face looked more serious and handsomer; I noticed my eyes had come alive, perhaps for the first time. F held up his hand to signal that he needed my attention. “I have a message from Olivia: We are to attend the theatre tonight.” Great, I thought, I would have the perfect suit for this.
Olivia had organised our tickets so that we could pick them up from the box office at Teatro Argentina, I had not stopped looking at myself in every available mirror since leaving Carbones. I looked at the stranger that would talk with Olivia tonight, who would feel an equal, or at least act as one. “Do you hear me?” F had been talking to me for a while in the bar at the hotel, but I was lost in a landscape that was only available to me. “Yes, sorry, I am back.” I said. “We will have these and then make our way to the theatre. OK?” I did not care what the production was going to be; it would no doubt have something to do with hell and redemption in the form of love between two people who could never be together and, ultimately, one would die. “OK,” I replied like a scolded child.
I was getting used to Rome, and her scent was now on me, and I felt for the first time I understood her, like in every relationship where there is a point that two become one, and the tune becomes clear and effortless. F collected the tickets whilst I searched the crowed outside for Olivia. She was not there. We went inside and found our way into the tall circular theatre with all the little boxes like a beehive. We went up and up until we found ours and took our seats. Olivia and Thomas sat opposite us, and she wore a green dress with a clear strip down her front that showed her blurred, partial breasts and stomach; she was as radiant as a hummingbird, way up in her nest. She had booked these seats on purpose and knew we’d be looking across at them. She noticed and bowed graciously before the room went dark and the drums began.
I waited for the parts of the production where there was more light so that I could see her; it came mostly in the final acts where the light was bright for the scenes of coming out of hell as the man would no doubt look back and condemn her to death or hell, I could not tell. I looked one last time, and she was not there, having must of gone to the toilets. I could not resist and went to find her. Walking through the old hallways in search, it must have been on this floor, at one point running but stopping when an usher became alarmed. By her smell, I could tell she was inside. I went in. I saw my figure walk up to her in the long mirror until I was holding her around the waist and felt the warmth of her blood in my hands through the silk. I kissed her and took her in my mouth, tasting every bit of her until she broke away. “We need to go back. He will be on soon.” I didn’t care; all I could think about was her. I wanted to rip off the dress and lift her onto the wash basins, but I also knew that this could not be so. “What do you mean?” She looked at me as if she knew me intensely, like she knew me more than I knew myself. “You will see. Come, we must go back.”
Back in my seat, I tried the best I could to compose myself. F had a look of worry all over his face. “Santino has messaged and says whatever Thomas is up to you need to shut it down.” What the fuck was happening? Sure enough, Thomas was not in his box; he had gone, and Olivia watched the stage as if she were a masterful conjurer. I thought and calculated as fast as I could manage, until Thomas appeared on the stage with an elderly women dressed as a nun. The crowd looked on, unsure of the exact nature of what was before them: Was this part of the production? The nun lay on the stage floor and closed her eyes as Thomas stood over her and put his hands out over her body, which began to drain of life; she went white as if all the blood had been removed by gravity, and suddenly a white shadow began to rise from her, as if her aura or spirit. “Stay here and keep an eye on them,” I directed F. I went to the hallways again and searched for the answer, and it came into view—a small, red box. I broke the glass, and the alarms sounded, and the sprinklers automatically went off. I made my way back through the crowd (that now hurried to leave) to find Thomas, who was still on the stage with the nun as her soggy body regained life. Gloria looked at me in such a way that conveyed something between hate or desire, but I hoped for the later, and then she left to get Thomas out of there.
*Read the next instqallment of Tom Stuckey’s new novella Disciple coming on March 24, 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.