Escape (7 page)

That day, I went into the bin room to clean it, as I did every day. And I knew that today was the day. The screw who opened the door
for me didn’t notice that the skip was full, whereas usually it was empty, and he locked the door behind me, as he did every day. I was breathing fast and my hands were clammy. I waited, straining my ears, counting the seconds by my heartbeat. According to our calculations, we had thirty minutes before the alarm would be raised.

After one minute, or a bit more – the minute went on so long – I heard the sound of an engine in the yard. It was the truck come to pick up the skip and take it to the dump. I gave five sharp knocks on the rubbish chute. Carlo was on dishwashing detail in the canteen, on the floor above. He heard the signal that we’d rehearsed over the last few days. He sneaked over to the mouth of the rubbish chute and jumped in. He shot out into the skip like a cannon ball and plunged down, swimming his way to the bottom. Then I jumped too. I grabbed the top of the skip wall, steadied myself and dived in after him. As I jumped, the metal shutter that closed off the bin room from the yard began to open. The guards checked that the room was empty, the truck was about to load the skip. I slid down among the plastic bags, the pressure was crushing, I couldn’t tell which way was up or down, and some of the bags had split. I felt something slimy and rough against my face, I wanted to throw up, I could hardly breathe, and I began to panic and choke. Drowning in a sea of rubbish. Carlo’s hand grabbed my arm, he brought his face very close to mine, pushed a bag out of the way to give me some air, and whispered, ‘Protect your face with your T-shirt, everything’s fine.’ Then a crash to make us shudder: the skip had been loaded on to the truck. ‘Good news,’ murmured Carlo, ‘we’re going to make it.’ I got my breath back. We began to manoeuvre ourselves very slowly into an upright position, trying to clear an air pocket around our heads. Carlo guided me.

We had to control our breathing, we knew it was vital otherwise we’d suffocate to death amid the rubbish. The truck started up. Our hands fumbled and found each other, locked. A stop: exit checks, signature of the paperwork, and inspection of the skip by the screws. We knew that it would be cursory, but what if, that day… Hearts thumping. The truck was on its way, we squeezed hands. We waited a few minutes, counting slowly, then bit by bit we fought our
way to the surface. When we were able to come up for air, I took a deep breath, despite the smell, then threw up. Carlo was kneeling, he held on to the wall of the skip with one hand, very much in control. I thought how he’d saved my life, in those first few minutes after I’d jumped in. I didn’t say anything because Carlo didn’t like shows of emotion. But he knew.

The truck slowed down. The driver was Marco, the leader of my gang when I was a thief in Rome, before my arrest. Using a false name, he’d got himself a job as a driver for the subcontractor who handled the prison’s rubbish, and the whole operation had been coordinated by his sister Luciana, who often used to come and visit me in jail. We’d been in love, before I got banged up. Or rather, we thought we were. But we were very young. In other words, we used to fuck each other. And she was a great help in planning our escape. It was agreed that we’d jump out when Marco braked three times in quick succession. He couldn’t stop because he wasn’t alone in the cab. We felt him brake three times, we shot up together, grabbed the side of the skip, heaved ourselves over the edge, hung there for a second, then we let go, throwing ourselves out as far as possible, clear of the truck. We hit the ground hard, but we were ready for it. We both tucked ourselves up into a ball and rolled on to the asphalt. We watched the truck drive off, then we stood up. The place was empty. Good choice. About five hundred metres away were some apartment blocks, one of those suburban housing estates plonked down in the middle of the countryside. We had to hope that no one had seen us jump off the truck, and we still needed a bit of luck. Carlo said to me, ‘By my reckoning, we’ve got ten minutes left before the alarm’s raised in the prison.’ We had to get away from the route taken by the refuse truck as fast as possible. Ten minutes just might be enough. We crossed the fields very quickly, heading for the apartment block. We kept calm, didn’t run, brushing ourselves down to get rid of the rubbish clinging to our hair and our clothes as we went. We walked round the first building and found ourselves in a huge car park between two apartment blocks. It was two o’clock in the afternoon, there weren’t many people about. A few days earlier
I’d hidden a piece of wire in my pocket, which I unrolled. I chose a Fiat model that I knew well. Within twenty seconds, I’d opened the door, and thirty seconds later I had the steering lock deactivated and the engine running, and we drove out of the car park. Carlo looked at his watch. ‘The alarm’s been raised,’ he said. We drove away from Rome. We left the stolen car in a supermarket car park around twenty kilometres away, where we waited for Luciana, Marco’s sister. She was standing next to her car, against the sunlight, her mass of copper-blond hair glinting in the sun. I found her stunning, but she had eyes only for Carlo. I’d already lost that game.

The three of us embraced and thumped the roof of her car – we’d pulled off our escape. Then we got into the car, I took the wheel, she sat next to me, half-turned towards Carlo sitting like a king on the back seat, and we headed off in the direction of the mountains.

The bank raid was planned for 3 p.m. on the 3rd of March. On the first of March, Carlo, Pepe and I held a vigil back at camp. Luciana had departed early in the morning, leaving us her car. She had to walk alone for a good three hours over the mountains before finding a car to take her back to Rome, but we men wanted to be on our own. I caressed her mass of copper hair one last time, feeling very emotional, then I went into the barn with Pepe, to allow Carlo to say goodbye to her in private, surrounded by nature.

When he came back, we got out the guns, three Walther P38 pistols. Our final shooting practice, four cartridges each, we didn’t have enough ammunition for more. I’d never used firearms in my Rome days, I was wary of them, I didn’t like the alternately icy or burning feel of them, they scared me. They were like wild animals that I couldn’t tame, but I kept quiet and joined in the shooting, same as the other two. I was no worse, either, once I was over the initial shock. Then we cleaned and greased our weapons, lying disassembled on a table in front of us. Carlo lingered, with a faraway look in his eyes. It was plain that he derived a physical thrill from touching the metal, greasing it, breathing in the special smell of mingled grease and powder. We put the guns away. Then, on the same table we spread out a map of Milan and the surrounding area, a map of the neighbourhood and a sketch showing the bank entrance and the interior.

We didn’t plan to go further inside the building. The three of us stood poring over the maps, our shoulders and heads brushing, and sometimes our hands touched. Pepe and I listened while Carlo explained to us in detail, a pencil in his hand, who would do what, and the precise timing of the operation. ‘Precision is crucial,’ Carlo said. ‘Our organisation must be flawless.’ We were attentive, very solemn. We exchanged a word, a look, our movements were coordinated, we were experiencing an intense moment of comradeship. Then, when the maps were put away, we decided that the fine-tuning was done, and we broke bread. ‘Last meal before the battle,’ Carlo said, and we shivered with anticipation, fear and pleasure. Afterwards, we found it difficult to chat idly so we sat in silence, and the time dragged. We went to bed early, and took sleeping pills.

Next day, on the second of March, the three of us drove up to Milan in the car that Luciana had left us, the guns hidden under the seats. When we got there, we staked out the area around the bank, to get a clear picture in our minds, then Carlo took the bag with the guns. We dumped the car in a car park, as planned, so that Luciana could pick it up that evening, and we hid in an empty apartment that belonged to friends of Carlo’s. For the sake of having something to do, something to say, we went over the next day’s schedule twice. Carlo emphasised that as long as we followed the plan to the letter, as long as there were no cock-ups, everything would be fine, they’d be waiting for us – those were his words. And he didn’t elaborate any further. The day dragged by very slowly.

The third of March. At last. The day that was to decide our fates. Things started speeding up. We split up. Pepe went to hire two vans and parked them near the bank. My job was to check the condition of the two motorbikes in the garage. I lavished attention on them and drove them to the two positions identified the previous day, so that we could make our getaway in two different directions after the robbery. And then there was more hanging around. I wasn’t able to eat the sandwich I’d bought.

We met up in a café a few hundred metres from the bank. Carlo had brought the guns in a sports holdall, we took one each. At 14.30, we got into our vans, Carlo alone in one, Pepe and me in the other. At 14.50, Pepe started up the van and parked it over a driveway to the left of the bank, obstructing the entire pavement. The bike was there, shielded by the van, and I was relieved to see it. At 14.57, the security van drew up in front of the bank and two guards got out, one of them was carrying two bags, the other kept his hand on his hip, on his open holster, and they went into the bank. Just then, Carlo’s van pulled up on the driveway to the right of the bank, facing ours. I was very focused, but not frantic, not even anxious; we simply needed to stick to the plan. Carlo opened his door, I opened mine. I didn’t take my eyes off him, he was our chief, we took our cue from him. He had his gun in his hand, I picked up mine, but then everything went wrong, and I don’t understand how or why. I
saw Carlo collapse in slow motion, like in a film. It was impossible, unthinkable, and I lost all sense of reality. I was in another dimension. I’d gone deaf, I couldn’t hear a sound, I didn’t hear the shots. I turned towards the entrance to the bank, still in slow motion, and I saw a
carabiniere
aiming his gun at me, and one of the security guards taking his gun out extremely slowly. I didn’t have the sense that I was in danger, I shot without making the decision to do so, without grasping what was happening. I saw two cops stagger and fall in a muffled silence. I existed only through the gun I was holding with both hands, through my fingers squeezing the trigger. Pepe grabbed me by the arm, brutally, and dragged me from the scene. He shoved me behind the van and started up the bike. I clambered on behind him, clung on to his shoulders, and within a few seconds we were out of sight. I could feel the bike throbbing, I could hear the sound of the engine, I put my gun in my pocket and I could feel the barrel burning my thigh. Gradually I came back down to earth. I replayed the whole scene in my mind, much more clearly than I had experienced it. Three things were certain: Carlo was dead. Dead. I would never hear him talking about his former battles again, inventing his future and mine. Dead without a goodbye, a last outburst, a last caress. Another certainty: I had killed, I’d become a killer, without yet comprehending the full import of those words, the consequences of those actions. And finally: yes, Carlo was right, they’d been waiting for us.