5th of November
The Gothic towers appear impressive from a distance. And lit at night the entire building has a recognisable majesty. Yet, up close, it is, in parts, ruinous. Peopled by those, in parts, ruinous. What may begin as veneration can twist to vanity. And vigilance sour to a patrolling paranoia. The crown is brittle: eggshell. A marble and granite temple in a grove on the shores of Lake Nemi. Here, a man, is, by virtue, often both priest and murderer too.
Hunkered down in a chapel in the basement, Guy heaved hard on his cigarette so that the smoke razored the back of his throat, making him cough. His hand twitched, rolled and shuffled his phone uneasily. The reporter had said he would call by 9pm to give him an update of where he was with the story. Waiting, Guy juggled potential scenarios, excuses and options in his mind. He rehearsed viable mixtures of lies, truths and next moves. The phone rang. Startled jerk. Gasp; apprehension. Skin flushed crimson in blotches. Pulse and breath quickened. “Yes, leak, 5th of November.” A blister of sweat escaped from his hairline and ran down the grave-like furrow between his brows. So it was done.