“Yeah, can we not kill them?” asks Archie, excitement flaring in his eyes.
Over Mabel’s shoulder, I catch sight of the photos of Wilf and Arnaldo hanging on the gable wall. I remember what Angelika said about Wilf deciding not to fight nature. “I’m afraid there’s no point trying to get rid of them completely. The best we can do is just to stop them coming in.”
To my surprise, Mabel declares, “I agree.” She lowers her feet back onto the floor. “Besides, killing them would be cruel.”
Theo stands up and returns to the table. “Come on, let’s finish eating, then clear everything away. And the best way to stop attracting mice is to make sure we don’t leave a single crumb.”
As we do as he suggests, I console myself that the situation could have turned out much worse. And in fairness to Mabel, seeing a live mouse probably did come as a shock.
“You know what, it was only small,” she concedes as she finishes her cereal. “It was probs just a baby. Now that I think about it, it was actually quite cute.”
Under the table, Theo presses on my foot and I give him a smile.
As soon as we’ve finished clearing up, I remember my phone call this afternoon.
I look at my watch. Five hours to go. …
I decide it’ll be the perfect distraction to get a haircut. After three weeks in Italy, Mabel’s long hair is fine, but mine, Theo’sand the boys’ is starting to look unkempt. And Theo and I joke that our eyebrows and ear hair seem to be growing much quicker than usual, wondering if it’s the sun or just a symptom of aging. Whatever’s going on, we’re in dire need of a trim and tidy.
Stefano has told us the best barber in the area is in Camaiore. While I’m not looking forward to going back to the town so soon after we were insulted, I think it’s probably a good idea: we can hardly avoid it forever.
“Now, who’s feeling strong?” asks Theo, when we’re all in the car.
“Me!” Archie and I chorus.
“Who’s ready to stick together?” continues Theo.
“Me!” Archie and I trill.
“And who’s afraid of horrible old men?”
“Not me!” Callum and Mabel join us to shout, much louder.
We set off, through the olive grove.
But when we arrive in Camaiore—parking the car on a bizarre hybrid of a roundabout and a car park—I sense we’re all a bit nervous. Theo and I put our hats in the boot, making the excuse that we’re having our hair cut so don’t want to take them off and forget them in the barber’s. But we both know that isn’t the real reason.
I remember the photos of Wilf and Arnaldo and feel a rush of defiance. “Actually, I am going to wear mine,” I announce.
“Yeah,” says Theo, straightening his spine. “Me too.”
We lift them back out of the boot and place them on our heads.
As we walk down the main street, it’s busier than it was on Tuesday and there are plenty of shoppers. But nobody really looks in our direction.
When we come to the barber’s, I stop outside.
“Here we are,” I say.
Loud rock music is blaring out, video screens are showing sports games, and a twentysomething with a bolt through his nose is hovering outside, tugging on a cigarette. The shop’s name is scratched like graffiti over a painting of an angry bull, brandishing a pair of clippers like a weapon.
“What do you think, gang?” asks Theo.
Just as I’m about to say I’m not sure this is the right place for us, a voice shouts, “Adam!”
I turn around to see Vito bounding towards us—all six feet, five inches of him. He’s dressed in navy chinos, a pale blue linen shirt, and moccasins, very different to the clothes we see him wearing on the dig, and very different to the crop top and shorts he was wearing in the gay bar at Torre del Lago. Although he does have a lapel badge of the Pride flag pinned to his shirt.
“Hi, Vito,” I say.“Ciao!”
