‘Nothing, my friend. Nothing at all. I give them a good view of the eruption, that is all. Would you also like to see how a village can disappear under a mountain? You see all these houses?’ His hand indicated the roof tops of Santo Francisco. ‘This village is built in the days when Rome is a great power. And in a few hours it will be gone. And you will go with it, my friend.’ He re-tied the mouth of the leather bag and slipped it into his pocket. Then he stooped and picked up the oilskin package.
He was coming towards me now and suddenly I knew what it was I had to do. I fumbled in the pocket of my jacket, found the rotor arm and showed it to him. ‘This is what you want, isn’t it?’ I said.
‘Ah, you think to barter, eh?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘I don’t barter with a murderous swine like you. You can try and get out on foot.’ I struggled up on one elbow and flung the little bakelite and metal arm as far as I could. He ran after it. But it fell clear of the roof. He stopped at the edge, staring down into the black pit into which it had fallen. Then he came back, his face livid with rage. He lashed out at me with his foot, kicking at the bare stump of my leg, mouthing curses at me in Italian. I felt grit searing the flesh and the pain of his kicks ran up the left side of my body and struck like hammer blows on the nerves of my brain. Then suddenly he turned, picked up my artificial leg and flung it after the rotor arm. I watched it fall with a red gleam of metal beyond the edge of the roof and a sickening feeling of fear took hold of me. It was silly to be frightened by the loss of an ugly metal attachment. But without it I was helpless and he knew it.
‘Now try to get out of Santo Francisco on your bare stump,’ he snarled.
The black vault of the night flared redder as the mountain blew off again. He glanced up to the glare. I could see the sweat shining in drops on his face. He turned to me, lashed out at my pelvis with all the frustrated violence of a man who is scared of death. I rolled over involuntarily and caught the kick on my thigh. He didn’t kick me again, but bent down, searching through the pockets of my coat and trousers. ‘What have you done with it?’ he screamed at me.
‘Done with what?’ I asked.
He drove his fist into my face. ‘The other rotor arm, you fool.’
‘I haven’t got it,’ I mumbled through my broken lips. ‘Maxwell has it.’ I thought the lie might send him back to them and give them another chance.
He beat at my face with his clenched fist until the mountain flamed again. Then he dived for the door of the roof and disappeared. I heard bolts being shot home and then I was alone in the red glare of the mountain.