Drawn In

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About This Book

Things haven’t been going well for Natalie Swift. Ever since she witnessed the murder of her boyfriend she’s been struggling to keep her world together. Her vacation in Florence should allow her to soak up the culture she loves and get some rest, but her plans go awry as soon as she arrives in town.

Rory‘s also in Florence. He’s Natalie’s dead boyfriend and he can’t seem to leave her alone.

His plan is to coax her to join him on the other side. The worrying thing for Natalie is that he has always been very persuasive.

Arturo is a street artist. His pictures are of the highest quality. They’re also the portals through which he collects souls. He’s dishy, romantic and immortal and he’s turning Natalie’s head in a way that Rory doesn’t appreciate one bit.

And Barabbas? He’s an imp with a heart of darkness sent to sort things out when Natalie interferes in the soul collection of a young child.

Drawn In is an engaging tale that follows what happens when mere mortals start meddling with the natural order of the universe. For all of the characters involved, this story really is a matter of life and death.

Episode One

Dee. I should have listened to the doctors. It’s way too early to be alone. Send me something to cheer me up. Love you lots, Nat xxx

I press send and pick up my fork. Spear a spinach leaf and a slice of tomato and put them into my mouth. The dressing’s lush, all fresh herbs and virgin oil, but I still have to force myself to chew and swallow. The food sinks to my stomach like a ball of wet cement. I push the plate away and take a sip of wine. The drink, I have no problem getting down.

The boys at the table next to mine are talking about me again. Words pour from their mouths like they’re in competition, their voices as lyrical as the water in the nearby fountain. It’s a shame that the things they say are more suited to the sewer.

Course I wouldn’t kick her out of bed, but check out those calves. If my dad shaved his legs they’d look better than that.

And those shoulders. Perhaps she works in the fields.

Or milking cows.

Still, she’s not bad for an English woman.

We’ll see. If nothing better comes along...

The phone vibrates on my table. New message. A selfie taken from Dee’s hospital bed. She’s got a pair of pants on her head and a carrot balanced on her top lip. You have to worry about the future of the country when someone that crazy can get into medical school.

I laugh out loud. It’s nice to be reminded that I can.

I sip more wine, root through my handbag and find a postcard. Lots of pictures of the city with Firenze typed across the top. Cheesy as hell. Mum will love it. I find my pen and write.

You were right about Italian men. All the charm’s on the surface, like frogs turned into princes. There are some nice American girls at the hotel. Tomorrow they’re taking me to the Galleria dell’Accademia. Eating all my vitamins and taking the pills.  N xxx 

I’m looking forward to seeing my new friends in the morning. It’ll do me good to have some company. Which reminds me, I must text Lucy. Tell her I’ll meet her at breakfast so we can finalise the plans.

The waiter saunters by. Leans against the post box and lights up a cigarette. His eyes are deep-set and his nose bent to one side. It doesn’t make him ugly, but he most definitely isn’t attractive.

He checks me out, top to bottom, and his gaze locks with mine. It’s intense. My body blushes underneath my cotton dress. I look away first.

When he finishes his smoke, he flicks the butt into the gutter. Returns to work and disappears inside.

I open my sketch book and select a light pencil. Close my eyes and try to remember the lines of his face. Sketch the outline as quickly as I can and add detail while it’s fresh in my mind.

I jump when he appears at my shoulder. He smiles and puts a full glass of Chianti in front of me.

On the house, he says, his words making me tingle. I’ve not had that feeling for ages. Not since Rory. And now, the waiter winks at someone inside, it’s time to add a sprinkling of romance to the evening.

Above us strings of bulbs light up, bright against the dusk. They warm me on the inside and make me feel safe.

Thanks, I say and watch him collect plates from another table. I take a picture of the lights and send it to Dee. She’s missing out on the holiday, and needs cheering up as much as I do.

I stand up. Bend over in front of the sewer-mouthed boys. They shut up for the first time in an hour. Maybe I should have put my bra on after my shower. Then again, maybe not.

I smile at the waiter and head inside to the bathroom.

At Trattoria Sapori, men and women share the sinks and the mirrors. Italians are chilled about these things. I put on lipstick. Brush my hair and check my teeth for stray food.

My reflection looks back at me like it wants to speak. I stop and wait for the words. The lips don’t move but the words appear in my head.

Be careful with the waiter. It’s not my voice, but Rory’s. You’re giving the wrong impression. Better you finish up now and go back to the hotel. Get an early night.

I hate the way he does that. It’s like he doesn’t want me to get over him. I splash cold water over my face and think about what he said. I guess he’s probably right. I should go home.

I return to my table and the fresh air, ready to bring the evening to an end.

On the other side of the road, a young man is drawing on the ground.

He’s so handsome it’s as if he’s been plucked from my imagination and thrown into the scene

There’s no way I can resist checking him out. I have to see what he’s drawing. I take the wine, grab my bag and head over.

Funny time to start, I say in Italian when I’m standing next to him. I’m much more confident about speaking the language now than when I arrived. My teachers would be proud.

He shrugs. His beard is a work of art, sculpted pencil thin and lining the edge of his angular chin. A pendant dangles from a chain that falls from his unbuttoned shirt and his ponytail is kept in place by a black velvet bow. He wears rectangular shades even though the night is closing in. That kind of thing normally irritates the hell out of me. I think I can forgive him.

There aren’t many people around this time of night, I explain as I glance over his shoulder.

The outline he’s drawn on the pavement is of a man lying sprawled face down between the fountain and the road.

The artist’s hands work quickly, selecting pastels from his box and rubbing and shading with paper-towels.

It’s not long before he’s finished the trousers, creases and folds immaculately placed at the bend of the knee.

So do you come here often?

He ignores me. Maybe the joke doesn’t translate.

Forgive me, he finally says. Time is short. He stands to check his work and kneels again. I must finish by 10:47. Then I can talk.

10:47? Typical of me to start a conversation with a nut job, but I guess it takes one to know one.

He sets to work on the left foot, shading the pink of a sock between the turn-up of the trousers and a brown leather shoe.

On the right he makes it all sock. He adds a hole over the big toe.

Tell me something about yourself, I urge. Anything. You’ll still finish on time.

He looks at his watch and opens his mouth. I’m from a long line of collectors. He sketches a shoe in the middle of the road, steps back to let a scooter go by. Pickers, I mean. Rag and bone men.

What on earth is he talking about?

As if he’s read my mind, he explains: Two centuries ago, my ancestors raked through the garbage every night. What they found, they sold at the city walls. He draws a few coins here and there, then gets back to the main body of work.

"But you’re not sorting through rubbish." I look back at the restaurant. The waiter’s staring at me, so I give him a little wave. He opens his hand, gestures at the lights and goes over to take an order from those loud-mouthed boys. I feel sorry for him, but there’ll be others for him to charm before too long.

Things change, the artist says. We evolve. Your children’s jobs are yet to be invented.

I don’t have children.

You will.

If it’s a chat-up line, it’s not the best I’ve heard.

He wipes his hands and starts work on the shirt.

The picture reminds me of someone. And it’s odd. Like an outline from a murder scene.

The time please?

I check my watch. Ten forty-four.

He stops talking and I stop asking him things.

The shirt he draws is white. Clean and crisp like it’s fresh on. Hands jut from the cuffs as if they’re clawing the ground.

The artist lights a cigarette. Fills the air with exotic curls of smoke.

Hold this, please. He passes the cigarette over for me to hold.

The silence is unsettling. I need to break it.

Your art. It’s... How can I put it? Unusual.

He looks up at me, eyes hidden behind his shades. Instead of answering he puts his fingers to his mouth and blows me a kiss.

I think about the waiter and check to see if he’s watching. He’s waving my cardigan above his head and running my way.

You left this, he calls. And it’s getting chilly.

The lights of a car and the hum of its engine seem to come from nowhere. I want to shout at the waiter. Warn him. Get him to stop. Only the brakes screech before I can utter a word. The collision snaps the summer evening to a halt.

Something shoots from his mouth. Teeth or candy, I can’t be sure.