The Long Fall by Julia Crouch Read Free Book Online

I think about it, it happens all over again.
    Mind fucks.
    26 July 1980, 10 p.m. Milan. Pensione Lulli.
     
    Arrived in the early evening, just before it got dark. Said goodbye to my nun. Another little death. Bones aching from bruises and sitting so long on trains.
    To save money after an expensive couple of days, toyed with the idea of staying put in the station for the night. But the whole place was full of sketchy men, all – despite my new look – leering at me. Decided not to risk it.
    Sat at a café, rolled a cig, ordered a beer and looked at Let’s Go . Thought about camping, since I’ve lugged the tent here in my rucksack. But the campsite’s miles away, and I don’t really think I’m ever going to be able to sleep soundly with just a thin bit of canvas between me and the world. Not any more.
    The creeps are really determined here. While I was flicking through my guidebook, two men sat at the spare chair at my table (not at the same time, thank God) and tried to talk to me. I ignored both of them and tried to appear to be absorbed in reading. The first gave up quickly, but the second seemed to be insulted that I wasn’t bowled over by his charm. He stuck his face between me and my page and rattled off some nasty-sounding Italian. His breath stank of brandy.
    I hated the anger in him. It reminded me too much of The French Shit. I wanted to stand up and scream at him or take my book and bat him out of my sight, hurt him. Instead, my cheeks burning, I just angled my body away from him. Thankfully, there were a lot of people around, so nothing too awful could have happened. Eventually he gave up, and, after one final slurred round of swearing, he left.
    But I was chilled by his attitude.
    And no one stepped in to help me.
    Unable to sit there any longer, I paid for my beer then found a little shop where I bought a bottle of red wine and a packet of Drum. At the last minute I picked up two oranges as a gesture towards nutrition.
    Ignoring Let’s Go ’s warning that while they might be cheap, they were also bleak (I was beyond caring: I just wanted to sleep) I went for one of the seedy little hotels lining the streets around the station. The barely alive crone at the desk charged me a thousand lire for a small single (sounds a lot, but it’s only about seventy pence). So here I am, smoking and drinking and scribbling in a grubby little room with a sick-makingly filthy toilet across the corridor and paper-thin walls, through which I can hear the thumps, grunts and groans of a couple having sex.
    It sounds better than my own experience, but only just.
    When I got here, there was a pubic hair on my bed pillow, which I removed with a bit of tissue. A cockroach still squats at the top of the wall above me. I hope he doesn’t jump. It’s one in the morning and people are still thundering up and down the corridor, talking loudly, laughing and shouting. I’m cold and alone.
    But at least there’s a lock on the door. And at least I’m a bit drunk.
    Still can’t read anything but Let’s Go . Wish I could.

KATE
     
    2013
     
    ‘Kate.’
    She opened her eyes to see Mark looking down at her. He was home at last from his call with his American clients. She squinted at her watch. It was one in the morning.
    ‘Oops. Must’ve dropped off.’
    ‘Well, that’s unusual,’ Mark said, raising an eyebrow. It wasn’t, of course, and he knew it. ‘Drink? Or have you had enough?’
    ‘Cup of chamomile would be nice.’
    Mark crossed over to the kitchen and put the kettle on, crashing around in the cupboard for a mug. She could tell by the set of his shoulders – immaculately straight in his sharp dark blue suit – that he was tense, irked about something.
    ‘How were the Americans?’ she asked, sitting up slowly. She adjusted her hair, which she knew would be sticking out at angles, then she arranged the cushion – which she had still been hugging when she fell asleep – neatly behind her, hiding her glass