The man stood up from his pile of cloth and paper and locked his eyes hungrily on the little girl.
“Wow!”
Michael’s jaw dropped in wonder. His eyes feasted on a gloriously colourful mask, hanging resplendent in a grubby shop window. He pressed his nose against the window pane and inspected the mask a little closer. Gold leaf horns… glittering blue gems… a gaping mouth, open in an almost mocking smile. Michael breathed out slowly. He had to have that mask.
“Mum..?”
Michael turned around, ready to plead for the first souvenir of the holiday. But his mum wasn’t there. He frowned, and looked down the tiny alleyway. Left. Right. Nothing.
Michael’s heartbeat quickened. He gulped- what was it his mother had said? ‘Stick close. It’s easy to get lost…’
A wave of ice-cold panic washed over Michael. He began to walk, slow at first, but steadily speeding up, until he was jogging past countless shop windows and over tiny bridges, sweat running in a steady stream from his forehead. All thoughts of the mask were forgotten, abandoned, finished: Michael was consumed with the thought that he, little Michael Kay, aged 12, was lost in one of the most confusing cities in the world…
“Hello.”
The little girl looked up into the dark eyes of a stranger. In a heart-stopping instant, she recognised him as ‘the scary tramp by the church’. She shook her head urgently, and rushed off, dropping her ice-cream in her haste.
The man sighed as she ran across the road and around the corner. He felt his stomach rumble impatiently, and wondered to himself how long ago it had been since he had eaten. Two days? Three? Four? He desperately needed money, money to buy the meal that he craved so badly.
Picking what was left of the ice-cream cone off the floor and devouring it, the man set off to find himself another target.
Michael drew to a halt. His legs felt wobbly and weak- and it wasn’t just because of the fact that he had been running aimlessly for the past fifteen minutes. He took in his surroundings as he caught his breath, desperately searching for a landmark. Something, anything, that looked familiar.
He was stood on the edge of a tiny square, lined with old houses, and, directly opposite, a church. Michael struggled to halt the hot tears that begun to stream down his cheeks. Why had he got so distracted? Why hadn’t he just stuck by his mum? And why had he just run off like that, without stopping to think?
He wandered miserably over to the other side of the square to sit in the shade of the church. Wrinkling his nose as he passed a pile of stinking rags and newspaper, Michael sat down on the hot pavement. His head pounded with the beginnings of a terrible headache.
Now what? He couldn’t ask for help, there was no-one around. And he couldn’t speak Italian anyway.
The tramp inspected the young boy. He had watched him make his way across the square and sit himself down in the shade of the church. Now he looked on as Michael rested for a while, before heaving himself up and heading off down a dark back-alley.
The tramp followed.
Michael shivered as he stepped into the cool alleyway. Away from the chaos of the main tourist areas of Venice, the streets were almost silent. Michael could hear his own heart thudding as he set off once more, footsteps padding quietly along on the cobbled stone. Once or twice he froze, sure that he had heard another set of feet echoing his own. But when he glanced behind, he could see nothing but a dark and empty street.
The tramp tracked his new prey with the skill of a seasoned hunter. Every so often he would slide smoothly into the shadows as the boy turned, face contorted into a picture of pure fear and confusion. Then they would be off again, two shadows treading quietly down a shady Venice back-street.
Suddenly, the little street emerged onto another square. This one was much busier, and Michael scanned the square hopefully. At first it seemed he had reached yet another dead end in his search. Then the streak of a purple t-shirt caught his eye, and Michael was tearing across the square, hope rising in his heart.
“Mum! MUM! MUM!! It’s me, thank goodness, I was…”
The woman turned round, and Michael’s words caught in his throat as he looked up into the confused eyes of a stranger.
It wasn’t his mum.
The tramp looked on with interest as the lady in the purple t-shirt spouted a long stream of coarse Italian. The boy shook his head hurriedly, and ran off down yet another backstreet, cheeks burning with embarrassment and a fresh river of tears dirtying his sweaty face. Deciding the time to strike was near, the tramp once again followed close behind.
Still reeling from shock, Michael staggered into the next street. He slowed to a walk and tried to get his brain into gear. Suddenly there was a tap on his shoulder. Michael swung around, terrified that it was the Italian lady back to lecture him some more.
So it was with frightened eyes that he returned the menacing glare of an unshaven man wearing ripped and tattered clothing. The tramp smiled almost tenderly, before raising his fist and slamming it into the side of Michael’s head. Hard.
Michael felt the pain explode deep inside as he hit the floor with a thud. The tramp stood over him victoriously, smirking.
“Don’t hurt me… please… mum… no…”
Michael tried to protest weakly, but his vision was blurring over, his thoughts cloudy…
Michael’s eyes lolled back into his head as he sank into unconsciousness.
Quickly, quietly, the tramp reached down and pulled Michael’s wallet out of his pocket, grinning all the while. Then, quickly, quietly, he turned and slipped into the shadows.
Michael was left lying cold and forgotten, unaware of the rats scurrying over his legs and arms, as the dim darkness of the night slowly rolled in; lost, and very much alone…
