The Man Who Couldn't Stay Dead. (Part 1 of 6)

MILAN, ITALY: AUGUST 17th 1989; 8.15pm.

The office of Star Diamond Dealers is a small but functional room above the Café Reale just off a bustling street in an off beat part of the city. A large wooden desk sits in one corner, covered in books and literature about gemstones. A small sink and kettle, mostly unused occupy another corner. An ancient ceiling fan hangs lopsided and motionless above the office, broken by a broom handle being banged on the ceiling to complain of the rap music from the flat above. The windows are open on a hot sultry Milan evening. Sounds of the street below drift into the room. A radio is playing Dean Martin singing That's Amore. A lavender candle burns inside the room to freshen the sweaty summer air.
Outside, the city is going about its business like any other evening. Car horns sound. People making their way home from work, handkerchiefs mopping brows and necks.. People sitting outside bars having a cooling drink. All unaware of the evil taking place just above their heads.
Inside the room, a scene from hell is being played out.
The repercussions of which, would echo down the years and haunt both of those involved. Quite literally.

Vicious blows rained down on the head of Antonio Petrini.
Harder and harder, the heavy, ornate hand mirror crashed into his skull.
His flailing arms useless against the might of Paulo Solquine, his business partner and more powerful attacker.
Antonio's piercing screams for mercy went unheeded, lost in the red mist of undiluted anger and breathless curses from his assailant.
Down and down came the blows. “Where is it ? Tell me. Where is it ?” screamed Paolo at his helpless victim. Before Antonio could answer and save himself, the mirror cracked. A shard of glass protruded from the frame just as the umpteenth blow landed. The glass penetrated deep into Antonio's forehead above his left eye, providing a merciless coup de grace.
Antonio's body stiffened, his eyes stared wide and motionless at the ceiling. A final gasp of God's good air left his body as his eyes slowly closed for the final time. In this life.
Paulo slumped into a chair, arms lifeless at his side. The bloody weapon dropped to the floor. A clock struck a quarter past eight.
The final strains of That's Amore faded away, leaving just Paulo's heavy, exhausted breathing to disturb the murderous stillness.
There he sat, staring for an eternity. Maybe an hour. Maybe three. Maybe it was just minutes. Time had stopped inside this room.
But not outside the open window. Car horns sounded. People laughed.
The world still turned. The universe still hummed. Time stood still for no man. Alive or dead.

LONDON, ENGLAND; AUGUST 17th. 1989. 10.30pm.

A hospital maternity room in London. Paul and Sophie Walsh, a young, English husband and wife are about to become parents.
The woman screams in pain and digs her nails into her husbands helpless hand. Gasps of relief are followed by weak happy laughter as their new born son is placed on her sweaty, heaving chest.
He is an olive skinned, dark haired, handsome baby with an unexplained scar on his forehead above his left eye.
Only later do his parents notice the star shaped birthmark on his left shoulder.

MILAN, ITALY. AUGUST 17th 1989. 11pm.

For a while Paulo Solquine felt nothing. Just an empty numbness where there should have been high emotion. Slowly, his brain started to function again.
Feelings of shock, horror at what he'd just done. But his over-riding sensation was satisfaction. A job done. An obstacle removed.
Eventually he rose from his chair. Darkness had fallen and there was a beautiful full moon shining through the open window. Something catches Paulo's eye glinting in the moonlight. On Antonio's lifeless corpse and all around the floor are little starbursts of light. Diamonds ! Dozens of tiny glistening diamonds that were in Antonio's hand when Paulo attacked him. Paulo greedily picks up as many as he can find. Many are red from Antonio's blood but Paulo barely notices. More importantly, he also doesn't notice Antonio's cold right fist clenched tight as he throws the bloody, broken hand mirror onto his corpse and rolls it up in the dirty carpet.

LONDON, ENGLAND. AUGUST 17th 1989. 11.30pm

It is agreed that the new born child has a dark Mediterranean look, unlike either of his parents. After a few risqué jokes about the milkman, it is agreed that Anthony would be a fitting name.
His mother is a little concerned about his tightly clenched right fist. She thinks it's a sign of anxiety. She eases the fingers open and places her little finger into the tiny palm.
Anthony grips it with intensity. She notices an odd mark on the palm of his hand. A red oval surrounded by a faint circle of five white dots.
She dismisses it as a result of the tightly clenched fist and expects it will disappear in time.
A beautiful full moon appears from behind a cloud and a shaft of light crosses the new born face. Anthony's startled eyes open wide and dart around the room. He lets out a loud cry.

MILAN, ITALY. AUGUST 18th 1989. 00.10am

Paulo opens the door onto a deserted side alley. After making sure there is no one around he drags a tied, heavy roll of carpet to the open boot of his car. He struggles to lift the damning object into the boot but desperation and adrenalin help. He throws in a large spade before slamming the boot shut and driving off with a squeal of burning rubber.
It is almost 1am when he reaches a clearing in a deserted wood. He has been here before many times. He knows this place as Legno di amore.
It has seen many nights of drunken loving from Paolo. But tonight there will be no loving. Far from it. Half an hour later, Paulo steps out of a shallow grave.
He is filthy and exhausted but he must finish in cold blood, what he started in a fit of heated fury. He leans into the car boot and heaves the dead weight carpet onto his shoulder. With faltering steps he struggles back to the fresh grave and unceremoniously and brutally drops his ex partner into the hole in the ground.

LONDON, ENGLAND AUGUST 18th 1989 1.30am

The newborn baby, sleeping fitfully, wakes suddenly with a loud scream. His resting mother jumps with fright and pacifies the child, shocked at the look of fear on his innocent face. She kisses the scar on his forehead and silently hopes it will fade away soon.
A forlorn hope.

MILAN, ITALY, AUGUST 18th 1989. 1.35am

Five minutes of desperate shovelling soon covered any trace of Antonio Petrini. This morning he was Managing Director of Star Diamond Dealers. Wealthy, ambitious and healthy. This evening, a corpse in a hole in the ground. Poor as dirt, no future and as unhealthy as a man can be. In a few weeks, all signs of Paulo Solquine's vicious crime would be overgrown and lost forever. As will the earthly body of his ex business partner. This particular body anyhow.

LONDON, ENGLAND. AUGUST 17th. 1996. 8.10pm

Anthony Walsh is seven years old today. His parents have arranged a small birthday party. Partly in celebration, but also to try and coax some fun into their strangely anxious young boy. They worry that he is far too troubled for one so young. Rarely playing with friends.
He doesn't like rough and tumble games. Laughing too infrequently for one so innocent. And so many hang ups.
His father had once playfully tried to get him to help in the garden.
As soon as Anthony saw him digging a hole to plant a tree he had a fit and needed sedating.
His mother has to keep all mirrors out of site. The four year old Anthony once entered her bedroom as she was using her hand mirror. The petrified child ran away so fast he fell down the stairs and needed hospital treatment. But the weirdest of all was yet to come.
The birthday party was going fairly well, considering. Considering that most of the children were playing with each other while Anthony looked on as usual. In an effort to get the birthday boy to join in, someone suggested a game of musical chairs.
A line of chairs was swiftly arranged, adult hands clapped to quickly gather the children. It was gone eight pm and approaching bed time for the youngsters. A radio was produced and switched on. Children began running around chairs. A clock struck a quarter past eight. From the radio blasted an old favourite. Dean Martin singing That's Amore.
As children laughed over the chairs, an unearthly scream pierced the air, stopping all activity dead. Anthony fell to the floor, lying on his back arms flailing above his head as though fending off an unseen attacker.
“No, please, don't. Stop. Stop . Paolo you're hurting me.”
Then his body went rigid, Anthony fell unconscious and a trickle of blood dribbled from the scar on his forehead.
There were no more parties on future birthdays.

MILAN, ITALY. AUGUST 17th. 1996. 8.15pm

Paulo Solquine is sitting in the office of Star Diamond Dealers. It has become run down and slightly grubby.
As the clock strikes 20.15, Paolo's body gave an involuntary shiver.
It felt as though a bucket of ice had just been poured down the back of his shirt. Paolo let out a reflex yell and quickly looked over his shoulder, not quite knowing what to expect. Maybe a client. Maybe a door opened by wind. But nothing. He pulled his collar up and shrugged it off. Suddenly the radio, playing quietly, burst into full volume.
Dean Martin singing That's Amore filled the room. Paolo jumped out of his chair and very nearly his skin. He ran to the radio and quickly switched it off. A nervous silence hung over the room and a twitchy Paulo decided to call it a day and go for a drink.
The song meant nothing to him, nor the date or time.

LONDON, ENGLAND. JULY 25th. 1999. 3.15pm

Ten year old Anthony is sitting in a big leather armchair in the office of Oliver Sankis, a child psychologist. He has been a patient here since the birthday incident three years earlier. Although Dr Sankis has never uttered the fact to Anthony or his parents, he considers the child to be his 'star' patient. An exciting 'project' for any psychologist who likes a challenge. The doctor has already written several acclaimed papers about this particular case. A certain 'best seller' is also on the way. 'The Boy Who Was Somebody Else.' or maybe; 'The Boy Who Wasn't Himself.'
He mulled it over as Anthony sat silently in front of him. One of those pregnant silences when the 'expert' has thrown the ball into your court and asked; 'What do you think is the problem ?”
Maybe a more dramatic title, he thought; 'The Boy With The Bleeding Scar.' which it did on certain occasions. Or; 'The Boy With The Star Birthmark.'
“A shame he didn't wear a diamond earring.” thought the doctor.
“Best keep it simple.” Dr Sankis concluded. He didn't want to confuse the layman. And heaven knows, his book would be confusing enough.
Meanwhile, Anthony sat silently, fiddling with the ring on his finger.
Most ten year old children seeing a psychologist would take something comforting with them. A favourite Teddy. An Action Man. A security blanket.
But Anthony found comfort in his mother's diamond engagement ring. Sophie Walsh had long since failed to be surprised by the behaviour of her troubled son. She was happy for him to wear the ring because she could see how much pleasure he got from it.
He didn't just wear it, he spent hours examining it and gazing into it as though it were a window into another world. Or another time.
It brought Anthony some kind of freedom from his anxieties, and that was good enough for his worried mother.

“Doctor, do you think I'm mad ?” Anthony's question broke the long silence and Dr Sankis was jolted from his 'best seller' reverie.
An adult asking this question would have received a convoluted answer about the nature of madness. 'What is madness ?' 'How do we know who is mad or who is sane ?' 'What is the difference anyway.' And of course: 'What do you think ?'
But a child needed a proper answer.
“No Anthony. I don't think you're mad at all.” Dr Sankis answered truthfully.
“So why am I here wasting your time ?” Anthony's query had all the bluntness of innocent childhood.
“You're not wasting my time Anthony. You have some issues that you need help with and I think I can help you.” The doctor was glad to finally have some interaction.
“You can't help me. Nobody can.” Dr Sankis was taken aback by the knowing certainty of the reply.
“I've helped lots of children like you Anthony. I can.....”
“I'm not like other children.” Anthony interrupted.
“Why not ?” Doctor Sankis' curiosity was now fully engaged.
“Because I'm not even a child.”
“You're ten years old Anthony. Don't you think that is still a child ?”
“But I'm not me.”
“If you're not you, who are you ?”
There was a long silence before the answer came.
“I don't know. But I'm in here.” Anthony stared at the diamond ring on his finger.
“You're inside that ring ?” Dr Sankis mentally added another chapter to his forthcoming best seller.
“It's not just a ring.” Anthony said impatiently. “It's a diamond. And when I look into it I...” Anthony stopped, struggling for the right words.
“You what Anthony ?” the doctor coaxed.
“I see things.”
“That's not unusual.“ the doctor soothed. “We all see things when we look into a diamond. Colours, lights, reflections. It's what makes them so beautiful and fascinating.” Dr Sankis misunderstood Anthony's meaning.
“Do you see memories doctor. Is that normal. ?”
“Memories ?”
“Pictures of somewhere else. Like being at the cinema watching a film.”
“What pictures do you see Anthony ?”
“My life. Before I was me.”
Past life' memories were meat and veg for any psychologist Usually they were vivid dreams that had become confused with reality. Or even long forgotten childhood movies that had been logged in the wrong memory department.
“So who were you before you were you ?” asked Dr Sankis matter of factly.
The answer shocked them both.

“E voi siete il ciarlatano. Perché non mi hai dichiarato e non sprecare il mio tempo.”

There was a pregnant pause as both of them wondered what had just happened.
The doctor was flustered by the unexpected turn of events, but still mentally added another chapter to his book. 'The Boy Who Lived In A Diamond And Spoke In Tongues.'
“I didn't know you spoke Italian Anthony.” the doctor said eventually.
Anthony was equally confused.
“I don't. What did I say ?”
“You said I'm wasting your time.”
“I told you so.” said Anthony.
“And you called me a quack.”
“What's a quack ?”
“It's a useless doctor who's not very good.”
Anthony laughed out loud. Possibly for the first time ever.
The doctor thought he was laughing at his own rude comment.
But for Anthony it was the laughter of a prisoner unexpectedly being released. Of a condemned man given a last second pardon. A Eureka moment.
He spoke Italian. It was like finding a long lost loved one.
“Now I can see better.' he said, staring hard into the diamond, almost as though trying to enter into it.

LINK TO PART TWO.
http://www.abctales.com/story/mayman/man-who-couldnt-stay-dead-part-2