Permesso

I kicked off my sandals. I just wanted to feel the stones beneath my bare feet, as always, whenever I came here. The sun was low in the sky and the evening was coming, so I ditched the footwear. It was only when I tried bending over to pick them up that the image changed. My side, with the torn muscles and flesh recently stitched together, and the three accompanying broken ribs, weren’t quite up to the effort, since I’m half-Italian, bravado, as well as blood, courses through my veins. But, I’m gay, which means I’m supposed to be sensitive and in touch with my feelings (more than one woman has wailed over that), but subtle and sensitive I’m not. I am what I am: a Detective Sergeant in the Met, and the stepson of a man with power and influence. A man who actually cared more about me than his own son. A stunning revelation, which is the reason I’m alive to tell the tale, and one of the reasons I’d come here.

Si’s hand closed over my sandals just as I was getting ready for the second go at bending over, and he scooped them up. “Dom, just take it easy. Okay?” He sounded irritated. It seemed the magic of this place wasn’t quite seeping into his soul yet. I’d brought him here because I wanted the magic to reach out to him, because I wanted for the first time in my life, to ask a question where my whole life depended on the answer.

“Come on.” I said, and set out on the road. The stone was warm beneath my skin, the healing peace of the place oozing up through the soles of my feet and I half-closed my eyes to tune out the world, nothing but the clacking of cicadas and the feel of the warmth of the slowly-setting sun on my body, and the presence of my lover. We were alone, as I knew we were likely to be. I let myself drift, allowing the peace of this place to sweep over me. I needed to be at peace.

I could feel the complexities slowly unknotting, unravelling and slipping away. I could hear the tread of Si’s feet and as he followed me, I could feel his anxiety unravelling too. We needed this, both of us. He hovered close to me as he had every day since the hour my stepfather had set us both free. My stepfather had saved my life and had given me into Simon Archer’s care. The pain in my side tightened for a moment and I almost stumbled. Si was there, his arm round my waist, supporting me. “Dom, we shouldn’t be doing this.”

“No, we should.” I could hear the stubbornness in my voice.

In truth, I had been seeing this place since I’d awakened in a hospital bed about three hours after it was all over. I awoke to pain, unbelievable pain. it felt like someone had ripped open my left side with one of those cheap can openers.  I was hurting so badly I couldn’t think straight.  Instinct took over.  It was instinct that had dragged me to my feet two days after being shot by my half-brother. I had to get home.  Where I could hide out, get away from the nightmare that had nearly killed me. Regroup, a chance to lick my wounds. So I’d dressed in the teeth of all opposition to me checking out. Made it as far as a taxi with Simon in tow, alternately beside himself with worry and out of his mind with angst ridden annoyance at my stubbornness.

What exactly had he expected from me? I might be part of the Harding clan by an accident of marriage, but I was a Carerra first, last and always. Carerras always return to their spiritual home, in times of crisis. So it was natural that I craved Italy.

Si thought I was too ill to make it. We had that argument on the way to the airport. He wasn’t the only one. The airline took one look at me and said no. No chance. I think they were worried that I might die in mid-air.

Fine, I’d said. We’ll go by train. By the time we returned to London and found our way onto the Eurostar, I was flagging badly. When we reached Paris, I was in so much pain I could neither stand, sit nor lie down in any degree of comfort. Simon delved into his pocket, pulled out a phrase book that must have come out of the ark and found us a hotel. He got us there, booked a room, got me into the lift and out, and the last thing I remembered for almost thirty-six hours, was his hand dropping two giant pink tablets into my hand, and his voice saying Take these, they’ll make you feel better.

I lay there for almost three days. I was in constant pain, but restless; the siren’s call of home wasn’t giving up on me. Like a wild animal in a cage, all I really wanted to do was go home. So after exhaustion and pain were mostly sated, I began the journey again. Si was angry with me. I bought the tickets and got us on a train to Genoa, where we would board the Seacat to Salerno. We sat in stiff annoyance almost as far as Nice, where the train driver suddenly decided he was going to stop in France. So it was the slow local train across the border to San Remo to change for Genoa. By the time Si had helped me on and off and we’d installed ourselves in the downstairs compartment of the double-decker train, his irritation had changed to worry.

I was rather worried myself. My vision was blurry, there was a sharp spearlike pain in my side with every movement, breathing hurt, sitting down was agony, and standing up was worse. But I was stubborn. Half the blood in my veins is from the most stubborn stock known to mankind. My ancestors were noted for it. Family legend has it that somewhere in the Carerra bloodline is a little mule. Believe it. That’s what made me the copper I am. The complete and utter refusal to accept defeat.

So I was going home. To Papa and Nonno. And taking my lover with me, an act of defiance I’d never committed before. Not that I’d had many lovers. Mine was mostly a lonely existence: keeping my eye on Derren, trying to relate to people, and doing my job. None of this was conducive to finding a life partner.

Papa, now; he was a whole new problem. I had been wrest away from Papa when I was two. It hadn’t taken me long to express my displeasure at this turn of events. By the time I was six I was openly defiant of Mama. I wanted to see my father. She didn’t want me to have anything to do with him. She had a new life, a new husband and a new baby which was all that mattered. This was the first time my stepfather saved me. To my mother’s grudging acceptance he opened the channels of communication, and before long, I was on a flight to Salerno, nominally in the charge of a stewardess, until I could be handed over to my father at the airport.

I spent my summers with my father in Italy, and my school time and winters with my mother in London. I grew up bi-lingual, with a strong will and a secret which would put my father into orbit once I finally told him.

I held off on my secret. The topic of one’s sexuality is not something one enters into lightly, especially in temperamental families like mine. My mother found out when I was 18, and she wasn’t happy about it. For this reason I held off telling my father. They were very alike in temperament, and I avoided the issue for years. Then one night when we’d all imbibed a little too freely, I decided to tell him.

Papa was furious. The row raged for about an hour before Nonno came to find out what the fuss was all about. I told Nonno exactly what I had told Papa. And the wily old fox accepted it on the spot. Mostly because he wanted to annoy Papa, but also because I was his favourite.

It was nearly four years before Papa stopped trying to introduce me to his friends’ lovely, but inexplicably unmarried, daughters; and five years before his friends finally realised that marriage in any traditional sense was just not happening.

So I had never taken anyone home with me before. I had given Si a potted life history, with some sketchy explanation of what was going on. He was going to be walking into a male-dominated household with warring factions on each side, so some degree of warning was necessary. There were a lot of men in my family. My father’s second family had given me three half brothers, all of whom accepted me and my sexuality, for similar reasons as my Nonno. My father had three brothers, with seven sons between them. Little factional wars broke out all the time. It had always been that way.

Into this vortex I was about to pitch my weary soul and wounded body, and my ex-gangster lover. It should’ve been daggers drawn, but by the time I was walking across the ferry landing stage towards my Papa and my wily old Nonno, their consternation about my health killed off any rows or posturing stone-dead.

“Papa.” I said. And promptly reeled. Arms closed gently around me, and a strong body supported me.

“Signor Carerra, I think we need to get Dom home.” The voice by my ear was slightly harsh with fear, and I gazed at the frightened faces in bewilderment before I let them take over.

I awoke in a comfortable bed with crisp white sheets, and the morning sun peeking through the half-open shutters. I was alone, although according to the indentation in the other side of the double bed, this hadn’t always been the case. I pondered this turn of events. Knowing my father as well as I knew him, he would not have suggested Si and I share a room, let alone a bed. I detected my Nonna’s hand in this.

My Nonno was more than happy to accept me as I am, but that probably didn’t extend to sleeping arrangements. My grandmother, however, was a slightly different proposition. Sicilian, of noble birth, blessed with a fierce temper and an even fiercer sense of practicality, Nonna was a force to be reckoned with. It would have been she who dictated who slept where.

I thought about moving. The pain in my side was still present, but mercifully less. So I planned my first move: sitting up. Just as I was attempting to put this plan gingerly into practice, the door opened.

If it had been Si first through the door, I might have got around him. But it was Nonna as Si held the door open for her.

“Dominic!” She launched into a torrent of scolding whilst pushing me back against the pillows, and gesturing at Si, who couldn’t understand a word she was saying. I’m pretty sure though, judging from his expression, he got her general drift. I lay back. I wasn’t even up to trying to defy her. My side hurt, my head hurt, and all I wanted was to curl up with Si and have him love me.

Nonna’s fingers stroked my hair back from my forehead. They were trembling, and I felt sick to my stomach. It was easy to forget that Nonno and Nonna were old, in their eighties; they loved me very much, and were frightened for me. Causing my grandparents pain was a no-no.

I spent a week flat on my back, being looked after by Si and my Nonna. The language barrier didn’t seem to make any difference. Nonna took Si under her wing. Finally, after a week of fussing, I had had enough. Even Nonna was prepared to recognise this. So I emerged, freshly mended, and started to take an interest in life again.

Si had finally started to relax, and the more time we spent together, the more I reached the same conclusion. Career be damned, I wanted Si in my life forever. The more I thought about it, the more it made sense. I longed to ask the question, but I wanted to be alone with him. Somewhere special.

So I borrowed Papa’s car. Si was not impressed when I over-estimated my ability to drive. Everything still hurt; changing gears in particular was a nightmare. But I was determined to get there, so grudgingly, I ceded the driving seat to Si, and navigated.

My special place. My father bought me here when I was six, and every year since, I’ve come here. My own personal pilgrimage.

So here we were: Paestum. Now I’m not a religious man, and not particularly artistic either, but there was something about the place which infiltrated my soul when I was a child. There’s a peace about it, an ancient Greek temple between the blue of the sea and the lofty peaks of the mountains behind. Perhaps something of the original inhabitants rubbed off, who knows. I only know for a momentous question there’s nowhere else on earth where I would want to ask such a thing.

The sun was low in the sky, and we were alone. I made it as far as the steps of the temple by sheer force of will, stretched out a hand to the steps and levered myself slowly down to a sitting position. The vice-like grip on my side eased slightly and I leaned forwards, my forearms resting on my knees and just closed my eyes for a moment.

I could feel Si hovering. Felt his anxiety. But I just needed that brief moment in time. To breathe in the peace of the place. I felt him relax a little when I didn’t crumble or topple over. One movement and he was sitting down next to me. I stretched out a hand and his fingers were entwined with mine.

I glanced sideways at our clasped hands. I had never had trouble saying what I meant before, but for some reason I was having difficulty coming up with the right words. I tuned into the sounds of dusk, the cicadas, the warmth of the sun’s rays, looked down at the ground, “I…. er….” I screwed my eyes closed. I was making a mess of it. I pulled myself together.

“Si.”

His fingers squeezed mine.

“I….”

“Dom…” He moved off the step next to me and crouched in front, still holding my hand. I watched him. I could feel my heart beating in my chest, the pain in my side was dulled. I felt detached from it, as though the pain and the body belonged to someone else.

He looked into my eyes. I was trying to read his. “The answer’s yes, Dom.” he said simply, and his free hand slid gently round my neck. Our lips met, and everything I needed to know was there for the taking. Memories were indeed made of this. For every moment of the last two months, the pain, the fear, and how close I came to losing everything, Si was there for me. Now in the place where I had always found peace and contentment, I found hope and joy too.