Author: teamnfv

Going commando just because you haven’t done the laundry? That’s funny.
It’s not. And it’s true. Haven’t done the laundry in donkey’s years.
Many time you went commando just because.
Point taken.
I smiled and intertwined my hands behind my head, settling my back more comfortably against the chair. I observed the notes in front of me on the desk, the cornetto still wrapped in the bar napkins, and took a moment to contemplate my life. Going commando was just one of the many dickhead things I did and I blamed on being mixed race. Easier than admitting that I was a dickhead because I liked pissing people off. Bending the rules and pushing it past the breaking point was my bread and butter, being conventional and do what ‘other people my age’ do sickened me.
Being plain and boring might keep you out of trouble, though. 
And where’s the fun in that?
Not everything has to be funny or a rush of adrenaline.
No, sometimes you need a joint to tone it all down. Or three. Speaking of which, is it too early for one?
The clock on the wall signed 8.56 on a Saturday morning. I had to wait for preliminary results on the body and the crime scene, Sergio was probably going to talk to more residents who saw nothing and heard nothing, there was no report to complete or overdue paperwork so sign; as annoying as bureaucracy is, it would have doubled as a distraction. Samia was on her way to work, if not there already, so, even if I called, no one was going to pick up.
What about strategizing and thinking about the resources you will need?
I could. Or I could take a nap.
It wouldn’t look very professional, but if you must.
Sleep. My reign for a pillow and a blanket! What a dream, close my eyes and sleep. In different circumstances, I would have gone to the beach and slept my hungover off on a sun-bed.
Instead, you are in your office, with a Jane Doe on her way to the morgue.
Must be my lucky day.
I walked to the window and grabbed my cigarettes from my jacket’s pocket. The packet was battered and almost empty, but I didn’t remember smoking that much.
How much do you actually remember about last night?
Anyway.
I lit one, thinking about the girl. I hated Jane Does almost as much as I hated dealing with underage and kids’ deaths. John and Jane Does were difficult cases, and too many of them remain unresolved. The idea that being in the police force meant bringing criminals to justice and preventing crimes was what the academy sold to any recruit. As soon as you got your uniform on, your superiors expected you to perform and get more bang for their buck in the shortest time possible. After a week Jane and John Doe stopped being a priority, unless someone came forward with a missing person report. I always found it unfair. John and Jane Does were people, with a life, family, friends, a job, dreams and feelings. They deserved extra care, before going six feet under, they deserved to be mourned and remembered, their beloved needed to bereave. Instead, more often than not, they ended up in a paper box in the archive, that got dustier by the minute and eventually became a cold case that a young officer or the original investigator reopened many years later, out of hope and years of remorse and self-despise.
A knock on the door made me jump.
“Come in” I answered, harsh. I hid my hand behind the outside wall, as if what I was doing wasn’t evident.
“Sorry ma’am” said Cosentino, the precinct corporal, with his teary voice. He was 22, came from a small village in Calabria and called mum every fucking day.
It’s lovely that he’s so close to his family.
He’s old enough to have one of his own! He doesn’t need mummy. To do what, by the way? Tell him how to wipe his ass?
You really get cranky when you don’t sleep.
“There is a lady that wants to talk to you. She is very persistent. She said it’s a matter of life and death.”
I rolled my eyes but managed to master my voice. “Let her in” I said, killing the butt and throwing it on the road below. Then I sat behind my desk, waiting for my karmic punishment. I was so sure that Poldo’s owner was going to cross the threshold, that I was willing to bet money on it.
What came through the door, though, was a miniature of a lady, and the only life and death matter she might have had was her Barbie doll not being invited to her best friend’s Barbie doll wedding with one of the many ominous copies of Ken.
I tried to blink her away, but the miniature woman didn’t budge. And so did my corporal.
“Ahm… yes.” I cleared my voice and tried again. “Thanks, Cosentino. You can leave us.
When he closed the door, I motioned to the two stuffed chairs in front of my desk and the little girl sat on one with a little jump, settling a leather messenger bag on her lap. I wasn’t in tune with the latest teenage fashion and it was a too grown-up thing to belong to her.
It could have been passed down from an older sibling.
That, or the lack of sleep is making me even more paranoid than usual.
“What can I do for you…”  I peeped over the edge of the desk and her feet barely scraped the rug underneath her chair “…kid?”
“Miss Marinella” she replied, pushing her blossoming chest out.
She can’t be wearing a bra. Even the smallest size won’t fit her.
Don’t be mean.
“Miss Marinella” I corrected myself, crossing my hands in front of me and assuming the most neutral expression I was capable of.
“I am a woman now, you know?” she said, her voice full of pride.
‘Being a woman’ could only mean two things, and since I wasn’t keen on thinking that a schoolgirl had no better way to spend her Saturday morning in a police station
talking about her first menstrual period, I let the worse option wave as many red flags as it wanted.
“What do you mean with that?”
“Exactly this. That I am a woman now” miniature woman repeated.
“How is that different from being a child?”
“Because a child doesn’t have… you know…” the girl lowered her voice and leaned forward, finally putting her feet on the floor “you are a woman too. You know.”
“Did you get your period?”
“Shhh!” Marinella raised a conceited finger to her lips, shushing me. “No need to shout, Madam!”
The little brat was seriously talking about menstruations.
I clicked my tongue, took a deep breath and reminded myself why I wasn’t going to be a mother.
You would be a great one.
And willingly put up with something like that?
“I am extremely glad for you, young lady…”
“Miss Marinella!”
“Marinella” I conceded, my frustration rising like the tide “but why should I be interested in that?”
“Oh, but I didn’t come for that” said the girl, crossing her arms on her invisible chest. I noticed a thick string of bracelets on her left arm, lines and lines of colourful beads, and a water tattoo fading on her bicep. “I came because, since I am a woman now, I am a responsible citizen, and as such it is my duty to report a theft.”
“Again, you don’t bother the police chief with that. We do have a brilliant-“
“But you are the only woman! And there are things you don’t talk about with boys.”
My headache was going from pounding to full blast. I had to wrap it all up quickly and go home for a while, swallow a handful of painkillers, sleep a couple of hours in my bed and wait for the preliminary results in the chill of my house. I used the police oath as a grounding mantra. I swear to fulfil my duties in administering and protecting the public interest. A crime had been committed and, big or small, I had to treat it with the same respect.
“Tell me about it.”
“My bike has been stolen.”
“When did it happen and where did you leave it?”
“Aren’t you going to take notes?”
I made a big fuss of grabbing a blank sheet from the pile I kept beside my typewriter and a pen.
“Ready. Stolen bike” I wrote. “When and where?”
“Yesterday evening, I left it in the bicycle rack right off the muntagnon, the one in front of the roundabout on the way to the Lidi, and I went to meet my friends at the funfair. We decided to have our future read. I wanted to know if I will be Gianluca’s girlfriend.”
“Did you chain it?” I stirred the conversation back to its original topic. One Poldo’s owner a day was more than enough.
“No one ever does. The place is safe.”
“If it were, you’d still have your bike.”
“But I do.”
I slammed my hands on the desk and Marinella flinched.
“So why are you here!”
“For this” she replied, pushing the handbag on the table. “This is not mine. And I don’t know the girl who lost it. Inside she has…” she blushed “…her pill and a few…things. You know… for the boys… And her keys! When I lost my keys, my mom grounded me for a week and didn’t give me pocket money for a month to repay the new lock. What if her parents punish her too?”
I snatched the bag from across the table and gave it a good look. It was an anonymous crossbody messenger bag of brown leather worn out at the corners, the flap kept close by a turn-twist lock.
“Did you go through it?” Linda asked.
“What did you take me for?’ asked Marinella, scandalised.
“How do you know there are condoms inside?”
“Because it was open on the ground.”
I moved the bag around and clearly heard a bunch of keys rolling inside.
“Where and when did you find it?” I asked, fetching a pair of gloves from the first drawer of my desk.
“Not far from my bike.”
“Can you tell me the story start to end instead of bits and pieces?” I yelled, opening the bag.
“If you’d only stop interrupting me with all your questions…” I stared at her in disbelief and Marinella rolled her eyes. “Yesterday evening I went to the funfair, but you already know this. As I’ve already told you, me and my friend Giusi wanted to have our future read. But when we went to the fortune-teller tent, there was a girl inside. We waited for a while, but then Giusi got tired of waiting and said we were going back later. You know, it was Saturday night so we had permission to stay until 10. We went to the bumper cars ride, because that’s the spot where the boys hang out and we ended up forgetting all about the fortune-teller.”
“You didn’t care knowing about Gianluca anymore?” I asked, inventorying the content of the bag. The keys Marinella talked about were a massive bunch of at least a dozen and a long, heavy metal one that was probably opening the front door of a castle or a fortress, around a keychain shaped like an A.
“Nah. I am with Marco now. You know… we rode the bumper cars together four times. With his tokens. Then he bought me this” she pointed at the last bracelet of the line “and asked me if I wanted to be his girlfriend.”
I want to be a kid again.
And miss out on all the useless adulthood drama?
I hid a smile in a deeper perusal of the keys and rolled two fingers, signalling miniature woman to continue.
“It was already past 10 when I checked the time, so I rushed away to go back home, and that’s when I found out that my bike was gone. I started to cry because I knew I was going to be in big trouble with my mom, Marco tried to cheer me up, but I was really upset. All his friends helped me find it. Marco said that it wasn’t unusual to move a bike if it was in someone else’s way, but all I could think about was ‘they stole my bike and my mom will ground me again’. And I don’t really want to, you know, especially now.”
“Why not?” I asked. Mint. A packet of cigarettes with a plastic lighter.
“Because school is almost over, and I want to go to the end of the year party with Marco. You know, next year he will go to high school, while I have two more years to wait. I will not see him in school anymore.”
“Back to your bike. How comes it was lost and then you found it?” A pen. A compact mirror.
“Oh, right. It wasn’t lost. As Marco said, someone took it but didn’t go far, because the front tire went flat, and whoever took it threw it in the ditch right under the City Walls, right off Via Pomposa.”
Jane Doe was found less than 100 metres away from it.
It might be a coincidence.
And elephants might start flying in the next hour or so.
“Where did you find the bag?” Big, round sunglasses with a red frame.
She shrugged.
“The strap was wrapped around the handlebar. I called my mom and told her that I had a flat, so she came and pick me up with the car, but I asked Marco to keep the bag.”
“Why did you do it?”
Miniature woman – Marinella! – shrugged again.
“I didn’t want to get in trouble with my mom. But I am not a thief! I took it here.”
A note for a medical appointment at Villa Salus, a private clinic, dated 23 April. Tissues. A small purse with some cash in it. The pill blister had four missing, then one, then three more missing. She skipped one day. Nothing else, but most of all, no documents.
“Did you or your friends notice anything weird? People shouting? Boyfriend and girlfriend arguing?”
Marinella shook her head. “You do and you don’t, you know. There is always someone shouting or arguing, but then they make up. And with the hospital that close, you hear sirens all the time.”
I didn’t think about it. Coming from Via Pomposa, past the City Walls, there was an arch that led to Corso Giovecca, the long road connecting the City Walls to the Este Castle and continued until the train station. At the very beginning of Corso Giovecca there was the city hospital and the A&E, that served more than half of the territory. Quite often La Nuova Ferrara, the local newspaper, reported of accidents and collisions between ambulances that sped to unload their patients and bikers or drivers going their way. Every time that a new article hit the print, I was asked to do something, but every time I only received bland reassurances and vague deadlines for public projects that never saw the light of day. Ferrara was a medieval city adapted to modern life, or so it tried to be.
I made a mental note to check with the hospital too, now that I had a timeframe. Maybe an ambulance passed by and someone noticed something.
Look outside. There is a flock of elephants flying right in front of your window.
One can always hope, right?
“Is there anything else?” I asked, putting the content back in the bag. Marinella shook her head left and right.
“Don’t you want me to sign the report?” she asked, jutting forward on the armchair. I pressed my lips together, tight.
Think sad thoughts, think sad thoughts.
“Yes. Right. Sorry.”
“I can see you are the boss. You forgot the basics.”
I smiled, tight. Then I grabbed another blank sheet from beside my typewriter, scribbled that I, Linda Bonora, had received a bag with this and that inside on the 26^th of Aprile 1986 and bla bla bla. Then I signed it and, in the spur of the moment, I even took out the Police stamp and the one with my full name and degree. Then I turned the page and presented it to Marinella who, below my scribbled signature, wrote in clear school-like letters Marinella Maccanti.
“Good. I think we are done here. How are you going home?”
“I’ll walk with Marco” she said, pride swelling up her chest again. “He’s waiting for me outside.”
Marinella jumped off the armchair, sorted her dress and reached the door, but before she could leave, I stopped her.
“With this Marco guy” I said. “Don’t do anything you don’t feel comfortable doing. And if you say no and he doesn’t respect your no, run away, come here and ask for me. Ok?”
“Oh, don’t worry. I won’t let him kiss me. I don’t want to have a baby.”
What were you saying about useless adulthood drama?
Marinella was smarter than I thought.

A YA Christmas Tale by Clint Chico

Our Christmas read this year is a special one, as it comes from one of our favourite writers, YA author Clint Chico. 
With eleven books under his belt, the thing we appreciate the most about his work is his ability to develop memorable characters who are unapologetic about who they are and always look out for others.
His books strike the perfect balance between being quirky and entertaining while dealing with “difficult” subjects in a meaningful, uplifting way.  

Here’s a little more about Clint’s latest creative effort…

The Story

Cassidy Lane and Ashlynn Harper are in love. They’re also in a lot of trouble. They’re in deep with Carter High School’s version of the mafia, and the only way out is to win a bet. Their challenge? Improve twelve people’s lives before Christmas Eve. Their plan? Find six potential couples and help them fall in love just in time for the holidays. Not an easy task, even for two Christmas-obsessed girls like Ash and Cassie. A challenge like this is going to require a little mischief. And a lot of mistletoe. 

The Book’s USPs

This is a YA Christmas rom-com that’s heavy on love and laughs. It’s at times both heartwarming and heartbreaking. Like all of Clint Chico’s books, it features LGBTQ characters and a racially diverse cast. 

Get your copy here: https://bit.ly/4fpGMxs

About the Author

Clint Chico is a teacher at an inner city performing arts high school. He’s the author of 11 YA novels, ranging from coming-of-age to romance to fantasy. All of his books are available on Amazon in paperback, Kindle, and Kindle Unlimited. 

You can find out more about his books at his Amazon Author Page, or follow him on Facebook.

On Saturday 26 th April 1986, at 6.04 in the morning, I parked my car near the City Wall. The sky was getting lighter, even if the sun was still way out of sight. An incorporeal fog danced upon the freshly cut grass left behind to dry at the bottom of the Wall. It was meant to stay a couple more days at least, before seasoned handymen with the City Council logo on their stained uniforms came around with their bags and pitchforks and tractors to collect it.
At least it doesn’t smell.
Still, I wouldn’t sit on it for a nice picnic.
Via Pomposa was quiet, but it wouldn’t be for long. The air was still crispy from the night, but spring lure and warmth enveloped the city, promising a hot, humid day. More than one family would have soon been packing towels and flip-flops and buckets and spades and head to the Seven Lidos. I didn’t mind the heat; I was happy to trade my rainy summers in London for 90% humidity and mosquitos as big as hummingbirds any time.
Even if I still felt alien in the city I was born and where I lived until I was 8, I grew to love Ferrara, the capital city of a territory that lived off of farming and fishing and a meagre beach tourism during the summer. It was a different universe, compared to London: people left their door unlocked, because everybody knew everybody else, in the summer women sat outside on the streets, gossiping about this or that person, in the winter paraded their furs and sheepskin jackets across the city centre’s shopping streets, helped each other to get jobs or look after kids, went to church because it was the right thing, but mostly kept themselves to themselves, got up early, went to bed early and joined forces against anyone who wasn’t at least part of the province.
Me included.
But it wasn’t their fault. Ferrara had a long, not always glamorous, past: originally it was a swamp, and keeping the territory dry has always been a hard and not remunerative job, that along with cold, humid and foggy winters and dry summers where the heat was scorching, toughened up the inhabitants to their core. In between the Wars, during the Mussolini regime, Ferrara was one of the main centres of fascist power – two of the four quadrumvir that led the March on Rome, the event that officially put Mussolini in power, were from Ferrara, and despite the fact it was an old story, there were still too many people who had lived through it to let the others forget. At the end of the War, the Socialist and the agricultural party took over, pushing the territory in the opposite direction, but ending up making an even bigger mess. Eventually, working in agriculture became just hard and not profitable anymore, unemployment reached sky-high levels, factories never developed and people moved somewhere else. Whoever remained had to face adversities and resentment and saw others thrive where all they had was fog, mosquitos and hard existences.
But with all its adversities and hardships, the countryside was magic, a vast plane that filled up every available interstice that wasn’t the city, a village or even a small ensemble of houses in the middle of nowhere that once homed the peasants and their families. As a child, my grandma used to live in one of them. And it was an all-year-round show. It started in autumn, when the trees went on fire and the land was squeezing out its last products before a well-deserved sleep. The earth became still and grey by All Saints, on November 1st , soon it began to be covered in fog, at times thin and wet, like a drizzle, other times so thick that you couldn’t see a person on the other side of the road. It was cold in winter, colder than London, but humid to the point that you always had the feeling of walking around in wet clothes. Then spring came, gradually, a bit here, a bit there. One nice, sunny day, followed by a foggy night, a mild, cloudy afternoon followed by a rainy day, the first gems on the trees, the first tractors in the fields, the occasional Saturday afternoon at the Lidi if it was sunny. And finally summer exploded once again, and the magic reached its peak. One day you slept with the blanket, the following day with the windows wide open and not even a sheet, the trees were in full bloom and the air smelled of flowers and soil and garlic and onions and the first strawberries and loquats, the heat hit you with no warning, days became long, nights short and conceited, letting you toss in bed endlessly because it was too hot. The only hope for a break from the impossible temperatures came from trips to the Seven Lidos, even if what the locals called sea was the mouth of the Pò River, which poured kilometres and kilometres of mud and tree branches and leaves and rubbish a few metres from those same families that were going to pack towels and flip-flops and buckets and spades in a few hours.
Who are you kidding? You’d probably be on the way too in a few hours if it
weren’t for this.
Right. Focus. I rubbed my face and passed my fingers in between my already messy hair, making it even messier. It had looked good the night before when I entered the Kontiki dance hall, but then I lost track of it after the third Blue Lagoon the barman served me and I hit the floor dancing on the notes of ‘Notorious’. The rest was blurred. I remembered a nice guy with brown hair who offered me a cigarette, I think we even made out in his car – or was it mine? – then I drove home and fell asleep face first on the carpet in the living room. The phone woke me up a few hours later, and still dressed like the night before, a deathly taste at the back of my throat and a pounding headache I drove my car to the bottom of the City Walls, checking my badly smeared make-up in my car rear-view mirror at every red traffic light, trying my best to fix it but eventually deciding that sunglasses were my best option. So, I pushed them up my nose and thanked the heavens for the dimmed light they provided.
I spotted the scene immediately. Impossible to miss the two starched sentries in the middle of the freshly cut grass, stiff as two blue bricks, and just as much compatible with the surroundings.
“Go, go. Nothing to see here” they repeated to the few passers-by. They
reminded me of Sweetchuck and Zed from Police Academy.
“Morning” I muttered, passing them by. They replied with a simple nod. I didn’t care for formalities, I preferred to avoid them when not strictly necessary, but once again I couldn’t suppress the pang of irritation that hit the bottom of my stomach. If their Inspector were a man, they would have bent over backwards to salute him.
Sergio Reali, my deputy, was talking to a woman. She was visibly shaking and her dog, a medium-sized mongrel, was barking loudly and jumping all around her, in a futile attempt to reclaim her attention and go back to his walk.
Poor thing, disturbed in one of the few pleasures his simple life has to offer.
I had been working with Sergio since I started in Ferrara, two years prior, and our chemistry was off the charts since day one. But just as colleagues. And not because Sergio was married with two kids, or because he was three years younger than me. I thought about it a few times, in a theoretical and interrogative way, but kissing him had the same appeal as licking asphalt in August. It might have been someone’s thing, and in that case who was I to judge, but it wasn’t mine. He was a friend, and a brother in arms, and there were times where these two things mattered more than any love affair or sexual pleasure.
Definitely it will last longer.
I walked the short distance that separated me from him and the dog lady, ready to rescue him.
“Inspector Linda Bonora, good morning” I introduced myself. I purposely avoided to add Lilith, my stupid middle name, to the mix. It always made me feel pretentious and fake, but it was crucial for my mother to agree to an Italian name. It also contributed to how I was feeling: I have been torn between Evelina, the tomboy who loved to run in the garden and climb trees and play with remote-control cars, and Lilith, the fairy-tale princess that took ballet and piano classes and went around dressed in pink frills and laces, since a very young age. Moving between two different countries didn’t help either, and for a very long time I didn’t know who to be. Until a few years ago, when I melted the two together, and Linda was born, this entity who played piano when she was nervous, batted in the boys’ team, spotted the occasional red or yellow top in her wardrobe and was not a person who left her house without make-up and her hair done.
Unless it’s an emergency, like this morning.
“Does it look like a good morning to you?” the woman sniffled. “I came out with Poldo, here” she pointed at the mongrel with the tip of her chin, which continued his unnoticed crusade of barking and jumping “for a quick walk before waking up my husband and go to Spina, and look! Look!” she shrieked, pointing at the body under the white sheet. “Can you believe it? A tragedy, plain and simple! I am in shock! It will take me a long time to recover from the trauma.”
I did my best to master my expression, noticing the side glances that that bastard of Sergio was sending my way, but I avoided them inspecting carefully the morning dew that covered my shoes.
“I am sure you are, Madam, and I am really sorry you have to go through this ordeal. But my deputy here, Reali, is an extremely capable agent and he will make it as painless as he can. Right, Sergio?” I slapped him on the shoulder, ignored the boorish comment that left his lips in a whisper and moved away in three rapid steps, leaving the woman still raging about how disgusting it was and what a terrible experience she was going through. Typical Italian propensity for drama.
The white sheets the government equipped us with were big. Just in case. In the ‘70s there were too many bodies, barely covered, that scandalised public opinion and the prude middle-class. But that sheet seemed even bigger, the bumps and lows underneath it concentrated in a small section right in the middle, almost flat to the ground, as if it was a mistake. It made me wonder if the phone call I got at an inhuman hour of the morning was just a prank because I did something to upset my superiors, and that was their way to get back at me. With a terrible and very questionable prank. It had to be. Because the alternative was that the body belonged to a child.
I never had problems with dead people – death is part of life – but I didn’t like it when they were young. When it came to kids – and luckily it only happened four times in my career – I joined the crime scene at the very last minute, trying to take in as much as I could in the least amount of time. There is already a sense of wrongness in violent deaths, that becomes amplified when it comes to anyone below the age of 25 and it just becomes a capital sin if the person is underage.
I took a deep breath to steady my nerves and knelt, the fingers of my left hand brushing the wet grass.
Feel the wetness against your skin.
It was a simple trick to ground myself, to be in the present instead of spiralling out of control and looking stupid in front of my subordinates who already had serious difficulties considering me a human being.
I lifted the corner of the sheet and saw long, brown, wavy locks.
Which of your fingers are touching the grass?
She had olive skin-tone.
Is the grass you’re touching soft or hard?
She had blue nail polish.
Is the grass hot or cold?
Her eyes were light brown, open wide.
Is the grass smooth or coarse?
She had full lips slightly ajar, blades of freshly cut grass stuck to her bright red lipstick, her nose, her hair.
Is it wet or dry?
I closed my eyes and released the sheet, which fluttered back into place, recreating its small pattern of bumps and lows.
The fingers that touch the grass are my index and middle finger of my left
hand, and it was wet, cold, coarse and stubbly.
A bout of nausea hit my throat, but I swallowed hard a couple of times and the feeling disappeared.
She looks so young.
Because she was young.
“What do we have?” asked a familiar voice behind me.
Doctor Fernando Landi, class 1934, graduated in 1962, a good two years ahead of his class, with more than twenty years of experience of dead people. He’s never been my biggest fan, but it wasn’t personal. He came from a generation where the highest achievement for a woman was buying a washing machine. For him, work with one in a position higher than secretary or switchboard operator was as normal as celebrating Christmas in July.
“Dr Landi, good morning” I greeted him, getting back to a standing position. “Girl, young, I would say between 20 and 25. I am quite sure she fell, but if it was intentional or not is not for me to say.”
Dr Landi waved his hand in a dismissive way.
“I will never understand English people” he said, rummaging in his bag. “You are brilliant at masking your lack of spine for politeness. Try again.”
I had been working with Landi since I had arrived in Ferrara, fighting hard for every shred of respect I had gained. The reason why he tolerated me was because he liked to teach on any occasion, and when he taught, I learnt.
You’ve always been one of my best students, said a voice in my head. But it wasn’t Dr Landi’s; it was a painful one, a voice that I only heard in my nightmares.
“Inspector? I am waiting” he said, pulling the sheet all the way back.
“She is quite close to the walls, meaning she didn’t jump.”
“Why is that?” asked Dr Landi, fetching a thermometer from his bag.
“The trajectory. If someone is being pushed, they tend to land perpendicular to the starting point. If she jumped, even if she didn’t run-up, she should have landed at least a meter forward.”
“What else?” he probed me, a corner of his mouth lifting in a smirk.
I walked around the girl, doing my best to ignore the sense of wrongness. There was going to be plenty of time, later, alone in my house.
Feel the earth below your feet, is it soft or hard?
“Her nails.”
“What about them?”
“The nail polish… it’s ruined. One nail is missing altogether. She struggled. But her clothes seem alright. A robbery? A scorned admirer?”
“That’s your job. Mine is to find out how she died. It will take me a few days” he said, busying himself around the body. He had that glimmer in his eyes, the one of a curious child in front of a wrapped present. Once again, I wondered if he ever killed anyone just to see what happens in real times, instead of studying it on dusty books.
At this point, getting any more information out of him was going to be like squeezing water out of a stone. I said my goodbyes and walked toward my car, Sergio still stuck with the woman. Poldo, instead, gave up his protests and was now sitting at her feet, with his snout in between his front paws. Sergio tried to catch my attention with some comical gestures of his head, but I hid my smile behind a cough and continued to walk.
The two sentries still stood uptight like two bricks, but at least they did the job. A few joggers and more dog owners stopped in small clumps away from the crime scene. Ferrara City Walls surrounded the core of the city, in a 9km long belt. During the Middle Ages and the Renaissance it was a safety measure. Nowadays it lost its protective function against arrows and cannonballs and became a popular spot for joggers, dog walkers and teenage lovers at their first kisses. Not at 6.30 in the morning, though. At that time there only were joggers and dog walkers, and the occasional pensioner out for the fresh bread and newspaper run. And the bastards seemed to multiply by the minute, gathering in bigger groups to discuss what happened, stretching their necks so much I was worried they were going to snap.
Dead people can be morbidly fascinating, especially in a tight-knit community where the installation of street lighting is a big deal and requires months of public debate.
I called for reinforcement, before the two bricks lost their power of repulsion and bystanders decided that Dr Landi was too old and needed help to load the body on the hearse.
“Two cruisers are on their way, Ma’am. ETA three minutes.”
“If they don’t stop for a coffee break” I muttered in the mic. I hung up and squeezed the bridge of my nose, trying to stop my frustration from going all the way up to my brain and contributing to the massive headache. All I could do, in the meantime, was to go and disperse the crowd myself.
A blink of silver and a fast movement caught my attention. Hiding behind a tall durmast there was a girl. She looked like a child dressed in her mother’s clothes, with long wavy hair cascading from her shoulders, a Bardot top that exposed her shoulders and belly, a colourful long skirt and lines and lines of bracelets around each wrist. As soon as she noticed I was looking in her direction she fled, like silversides fishes do in the Adriatic, followed by the tinkle of her jewellery. I was about to go after her when a man, the bravest, or the most idiotic of the group, according to the point of view, stopped me.
“I’m sorry, sgnurina” he said in a thick accent, making his best effort to not mix Italian and dialect and coming out with a scrunchy version of Sorry, miss. In time I got used to the dialect, but part of conversations still were lost in translation.
“Yes.”
“What happened there?”
“We are in no position to release any information” I said to him. Then I turned to the rest of the crowd. “If you saw something you want to report to the authorities, please approach one of the agents now or come to the Station as soon as you can. Otherwise, I suggest you leave the premises. All of you.”
More than one head turned on the other side, and a few people went as far as commenting that they weren’t going to take suggestions from a secretary.
“I am Chief Inspector Linda Bonora” I said, charging my voice with all the pain and resentment and anger I had. “Not a secretary. And if you have something else to say, you can say it to my face.”
At the words Chief Inspector, the crowd dissipated. Only to reform on the other side of the crossing, under the big ship that commemorated the Navy soldiers that fell during one war or another.
I observed the whole transhumance with a careful eye: crowds can pick up details and moods that my ten years out of the country haven’t taught me how to. I was an exotic foreigner in London, I am the snotty bitch from another country here.
I took another look around, but the girl was gone. And the cruisers were nowhere near. Dr Landi was doing his things and Sergio was still busy with Poldo’s owner. I gestured him that I was going. His half smiled replaced the middle finger he really itched to flip at me but he couldn’t, given the situation. I turned the key in the ignition and the radio came alive too.
“…while Ghaddafi’s status remains to be verified. There are no football matches scheduled for today, all championships suspended ahead of the celebrations for Liberation Day. SPAL will play Fano team next weekend at the Paolo Mazza stadium, tickets are still available. The San Marino Formula One Grand Prix will start at 2pm, Ayrton Senna will be in pole position, followed by Nelson Piquet, Nigel Mansell and Alain Prost, the two Ferrari are starting in fifth and seventh position. That’s all for this hour, next radio-journal at eight.”
When the speaker finally stopped talking, Madonna began her tirade against lying men and how she hoped to live to tell all the secrets she learned. I made a mental note to go and watch the movie before the only cinema that showed it in the whole city and province pulled it for the low volume of ticket sales.
It was at times like these I missed London and its buzz.
Do you also miss the long sequence of balls and dinners and events your mother dragged you to?
London was a great city, but, at times, it could be overrated. Ferrara was a bum, far from the splendour of a more cosmopolitan agglomerate like Bologna, but big enough to have a university and a couple of decent events during the year. It was the capital of a dilapidated territory, that stopped growing when the rest of Italy was bathing in the post-war economic boom and tried to catch up for the past 20-odd years with no success. Always chasing the others, always a couple of steps behind, always a minute too late. Maybe that’s the reason why it felt like home.
The city was slowly awakening: bicycles, more dog walkers, the first kids, the last all-nighters. I reached the Station and manoeuvred the car into my personal parking space. Across the road the bar was open, with Lucia already busy behind the counter. She was a skinny lady probably over 50, but she looked at least 200 thanks to all the fags she started to smoke a few hours after she was born.
“Morning inspector! Coffee?”
“Please” I pushed my sunglasses on top of my head, planted my elbows on the counter and toyed with the sugar dispenser.
“How come you are up so early? And on a Saturday!” she asked in her raspy voice.
“A new case.”
“A bad one, looking at your face” she placed the espresso cup on the saucer in front of me. “Milk?”
I nodded and she poured a drop, while I looked for my cigarettes.
“She was young” I said in a cloud of smoke. Lucia nodded her disappointment but didn’t comment any further. She knew when to ask more questions and when to listen, and that was why we hung out at her bar.
“Morning old ladies!” said the delivery boy, entering with two big trays wrapped in paper.
“Your father didn’t slap you enough while you were growing up. Give it here.”
Lucia grabbed the two trays from his hands and while the boy took a long look at a not at all impressed me, she clipped him behind the ears.
“Don’t complain or I’ll tell Lucio!” she said, waving her index finger under his nose. He left as fast as he had entered, and I laughed.
“He’s a good boy” I said.
“He needs to be reminded some manners from time to time. Do you want a cornetto? They are still warm.”
Lucia offered me the whole tray, and after a careful examination, I picked an apricot jam croissant and wrapped it in a paper tissue.
“Put it on my tab, please, and save one for Sergio too. A bombolone with custard, please. The biggest you have.”
Lucia whistled.
“What do you have to make up for?”
“I left him with a potential witness, one of those stiff old ladies that wear pearls at 6 in the morning to walk the dog.”
“And you think a bombolone will do?”
“There is also the cappuccino.”
When I left the bar Lucia was still laughing.
I crossed the threshold of a red brick building: outside it looked just like the rest of the constructions along the road; inside, though, it was decorated with Renaissance frescoes and marble statues that dated back to the 16th century, when the Este dynasty was one of the most powerful in Italy. Being a Saturday morning, the only person there was the night sentry, ready for the change of the guard, and two constables, who almost stood at attention when they noticed my presence.
At least them.
I ignored everybody, not in the mood for formalities, and walked up the stairs briskly, my cornetto cooling down in my hand. I opened the last door on the left, that, as per a cruel joke, was in front of the toilets. More than once I wondered if that was only pure coincidence, as everyone seemed so keen to reassure me, even if I found out that the room had been used as an archive up to my arrival from Bologna, two years ago.
“It’s the biggest room in the building” said the Commissioner, when he did the honours “and also the most richly decorated. It was used as dance hall back in time” he added, pompously.
“That’s nice” I said, not listening to the art lesson any longer.
Yes, it was big and richly decorated. And the light was amazing, since I had windows on three sides that captured morning, mid-day and sunset. But it was also a place where I laid pictures of dead people, had evidence and firearms and a lot of paperwork that detailed the most inhuman behaviours.
There is also a sofa with two armchairs and a rug, that is a nice touch.
Yes, a sofa where sometimes I receive guests and witnesses and sometimes I spend the night, if I am too spent to make it home.
I took a deep breath and exhaled, closing the door behind me. The typewriter was hidden by its cover, my chair neatly pushed under the desk, my trench still on the coat rack. The only difference was that the pile of documents I signed the day before was gone. Sandra, my very efficient and very young secretary, had swept them before the end of her working day.
They could be the same age.
A churn twisted my stomach and I was grateful I only had a coffee. I sat my cornetto on the desk, still wrapped in its tissues, no longer hungry. Twenty-something was not an age to die. It was the age to go clubbing at night, go shopping with friends on a Saturday afternoon, maybe have a forever boyfriend that was going to last only until the next forever boyfriend entered the picture. But not an age to lie under a white sheet with Dr Landi probing your body in private places.
I opened the west-facing window, welcoming the fresh air in the humid room.
Looking out, on the left, I could glimpse at the Este Castle, that nowadays housed the Town Hall. It was deserted, all its employees celebrating the extra day off. I sat behind my desk and opened the last of three drawers on the right side, the only one I kept locked. Beside an envelope with a copy of my birth certificate and my passport, my beauty case with sanitary products, a change of underwear, a brush, make-up and hairpins, I kept my diary. It was a simple ruled A5 notebook, the type that primary school kids use to learn how to write letters and numbers. I usually bought them in bulk at the beginning of the school year, taking advantage of special offers and compiled them meticulously every day I was working on a case. I started when I became a constable; jotting questions, events and personal considerations on paper was cathartic. Nothing went missing, nothing was stupid. I could switch from Italian to English and back, mix the two languages, create new words that made sense only to me. I used a special substitution alphabet to write names, arrows to indicate that someone went or came to or from a place, crosses to say that something stopped or finished or was a dead end and, at times music notes or ballet poses’ names.
I took a pen from my overcrowded pen holder and opened my diary on a fresh page.

26 April 1986
Sunny, people -> the Lidi. St George’s funfair almost X. School 2, soon there will be < students. / uni still in session until late July. ?? uni student? She looks young / not high school young.
Local? Dark brown hair, natural olive-skin. ?? southern beau? ?? 2nd gen? Like me she could have been living around 4 a while.
X jump. Pushed. ? Her nails. The nail-polish was ruined. / she was well dressed. Her blouse was ironed. She wore nylon tights. It’s not summer yet, / girls are already baring their legs => made an effort in her appearance => X chipped manicure is wrong.
X jacket. X bag. Theft? It might. The area is XXX. Whoever assaulted her got her bag, ??even her jacket, she defended herself -> the ruined polish, in the effort of getting her bag they pushed her while she was pulling, the bag handle snapped, ?? she tripped and she fell backwards, going off the wall.
If so -> she would have landed on her back. So if

Someone knocked at my door, interrupting my concentration.
“Come in” I barked, tossing the pen in the middle fold of my diary. Reali pushed his head in.
“Is it a good time?”
“As good as any.”
I closed my diary and pointed at the two chairs in front of my desk. Reali sat and crossed his legs.
“Dr Landi will give you a call later today with the preliminary results, but he will need at least 72 hours for the rest and a minimum of two weeks for alcohol and drug reports. According to his preliminary tests, she died last night, or in the very early hours of the morning.”
“When the sky was dark and people were asleep.”
“Exactly” nodded Sergio. “The closest residential building is across the road, a good 300 metres away from the scene anyway. I left a couple of agents for a door-to-door round of questions.”
“It’s a long shot, but it’s a good call. Anything else?”
“Yes. The gypsy girl came back.”
“What gypsy girl?”
“The one with long hair and bare feet.”
“Bardot top and as many bracelets as the Madonna statue inside the Cathedral?”
“That one” he confirmed Reali, looking for his cigarettes. He stopped as soon as he noticed my face. No one was allowed to smoke in my office.
“Why do you think she’s a gypsy?”
“She’s a carny. They are all gypsy…” he said with a dismissive wave of his hand. I looked at him ready to separate his body from his head and he apologised.
“Anyway. After you left, she came back. I managed to ask if she saw something, but
when she opened her mouth to reply, someone called her, and she ran away in a wave of curls. She has some pretty, strong long legs.”
And the possible gypsy roots are not important anymore.
“What’s her name?”
“Something like Dea.”
“Dea. As in goddess?” Sergio shrugged his shoulders. “I’ll have a look later. You can go, thanks.”
He got up and opened the door.
“Oh, Sergio. One more thing.”
“Chief?”
“Breakfast is already paid for at Lucia’s.”
“I’ll need a bit more than breakfast to forgive you for leaving me with Mrs Sartori’s rambling for 45 fucking minutes.” said Sergio.
“You know I am not gonna have sex with you” I said, opening my diary again.
“At least a hand job!”
“Piss off, jerk” I said, aiming at his head with my pen, but hitting the door instead.
When he left, I tried to make sense of the ‘so if’ that concluded my last paragraph, but when I couldn’t recall that train of thought, I crossed it out and started a new paragraph.

The girl – she is a carny – <- after I left / someone called her, and ->. ? family member. ? a husband. BB l8r. S. says her name is Dea. ??? S. can be such a bigot.
* call Samia. It’s been a few days, she must be worried. Need to do the laundry. Another day and I won’t have any clean underwear left. ? go commando. I might consider it.

A Thriller by Ella Piazzi

It’s a warm spring morning in 1986, when the body of a girl is found right outside the Funfair. Who is she and why was she killed? Detective Inspector Linda Grace Bonora is immediately on the case.
Supported by her deputy and friend Sergio Reali and her girlfriend Samia, she will peel off every single veil wrapping this young Jane Doe, giving her a name, an address and a reason to die. 
Follow DI Bonora in her first investigation, and step into Ferrara, a small Medieaval city in the North-East of Italy surrounded by foggy countryside, where families have known each other for generations and nothing really ever happens…

Join us every first Wednesday of the month, starting this week!

Why did we decide to embrace the format? A word from our co-founder Alex.

The first time I heard that serial novels were making a comeback was 2021, the year Kindle Vella was launched. Given what we know today about the platform – soon closing down as it hasn’t lived up to expectations – this is probably the worst possible example to explain to you why we are embarking on this venture. So, I’ll try and start again with a more charming story.

The first time I read online that serial novels were making a comeback was 2021, around 15 years after self-publishing behemoth Wattpad, and today’s largest storytelling community, was founded (10 years if you consider its first round of venture capital funding as a breakthrough point). Being a bit of a nerd when it comes to digitalisation and publishing, I can tell you that endless articles – both academic and mundane – have been written on how the platform has revolutionised the way stories are told and created ‘a shift from consumer culture to a culture of participation’ (Ramdarshan Bold, 2018). Simply put, a world where people can be writers, publishers and readers in one; self-publishing 2.0, or self-publishing with a twist if you like, given the possibility for creators to publish at their desired pace and have almost instant feedback on their writing, acquiring social capital if successful. 

While researching for this piece, I was actually astounded by the number of platforms similar to Wattpad that exist today if one wishes to publish their work, in instalments, for the benefit of  “the masses”: Inkitt, Radish, Sweek, Penana and more (an interesting article on the subject here).

As a reader, I quite like the idea of serial writing, for 3 reasons:

1. Convenience: the fact that, thanks to digital platforms and mobile devices, one can access new stories anytime/anywhere, fitting reading around busy, on-the-move lifestyles;
2. Manageability: it is a fact that attention spans have shortened dramatically over the last few years. It’s not that one can no longer read a whole book, but perhaps quick, bite-sized chapters of a story are a little easier to handle;
3. Suspense & Engagement: in a digital world that moves way faster than our brains, one has the power (and actually looks forward) to stop and wait for the next chapter. While I do not participate in the online debate sparked by each new instalment, I do feel that the format encourages more meaningful engagement.

A mystery to unveil awaits… We hope you’ll enjoy the journey with us.

You can find Chapter One of ‘St. George’s Funfair’ on our blog from Wednesday.