Death of a Showgirl by Tobias Jones Read Free Book Online Page B

alongside a dense dark pine grove and I saw a sign to the campsite.
    It was more like a poor man’s suburb than a campsite. Caravans had been parked there for so long that most of the wheels had been replaced by bricks, and permanent patios and hedges had grown up around them. Awnings and tarpaulins were pulled tight over scaffolding poles with elastic bungees. There were neat sets of plastic chairs under each awning and football flags flying from spare poles. As I walked along the gravel path between the caravans I could see that some people had put plastic roses in their hedges. There were people walking around in towelling dressing gowns, ambling back from the communal showers. There were pollarded poplars shading the various lots and, as I looked for Lot 37 South, I could see a concrete ping-pong table, its bumpy surface painted green and white, with Sellotape pulled between two pencils for a net. It was all a strange combination of permanence and improvisation.
    I found Fabrizio Mori’s place easily enough. It seemed the same as all the others: a shaded shack that looked like it had been parked there twenty years ago and hadn’t moved since. There was a padlocked wooden building in the corner of the tiny plot. I peered in through a window and saw a few old tools – some shears and secateurs – and a dozen brown-glass bottles. I turned back towards the caravan and knocked hard on the door. The whole vehicle seemed to wobble as I knocked again. Nothing.
    To the side there was only half a metre between the end of the caravan and a green lattice fence. I turned sideways, shuffled down the narrow space and immediately saw a broken window. There were shards of glass on the pillow of the bed inside.
    ‘Mori,’ I called. ‘Simona.’ No reply. I called again to make sure. Still no reply.
    There was an old newspaper caught against the deflated tyre of a bicycle. I used it to knock over the vertical triangles of broken glass still in the window frame and then placed it over the shattered stumps and pulled myself inside.
    As soon as I landed the other side I saw something rushing towards me from the left. A heavy object slammed into the back of my head and knocked me to the side of the bed. The same object hit me again and I fell off the mattress. As I lay on all fours I got kicked in my midriff and collapsed on my side. The kicks kept coming hard. I put my arms over my stomach to protect myself, and I watched the black boots pounding into my forearms.
    Eventually the panting animal stepped back. The back of my head was throbbing badly from where I had taken the blow, but I tried to lift it up to see the assailant.
    ‘Who are you?’ he grunted. There was a lean authority in his voice.
    I pushed myself backwards so I was leaning against the wall. I could feel a patch of warm sticky blood behind my ear. ‘Father Christmas,’ I said. ‘I couldn’t find the chimney.’
    We stared at each other as he lit a cigarette. He was short and fat. He had a puffy face, like he had eaten too many pastries washed down with sweet wine. His head was bald but for over-length, slightly curly hanks of grey at the sides and there were beads of sweat across his scalp. His shirt, with its improbable floral pattern, was unbuttoned to half-way down his protruding stomach. In his left hand he was holding a long wooden club. His trousers were cream linen, making him look as though he had just stepped off a yacht in the harbour. He smelt of sweat and perfume, like a zoo animal that had just been shampooed. Only his footwear, leather boots with toecaps so circular they must have been steel, gave the impression that he really meant business.
    ‘What are you doing here?’ he asked after a couple of deep drags.
    ‘Dropping off presents.’
    ‘Don’t play the wise guy,’ he whispered. He took a step towards me and put his shoe on the knuckles of my right hand. He bent down and held the orange tip of the cigarette an inch from my eye. ‘What are