Burden of Memory Grabbing his startled wife’s arm, Andrew Elliot bolted out of their once favourite Palermo fruit and vegetable market, a stone’s throw from the university where they’d both worked four years earlier. A time that seemed to belong to other people and to another dimension.“Get in the car Carol!”His eye on the rear-view mirror, Andrew sped in silence back to Palermo airport, where they’d landed only that morning, returned the car keys at the rental counter and boarded a flight for Rome. “I saw the killer.” he whispered.“What?” Carol gasped. “It was the security guard.”“Andrew, what happened back there?”“There was something about the shooting that I never remembered until today.” “Oh, no!”“I saw a tattoo that day, it was a sword on a man’s forearm and I saw it again today.”“Are you positive?” “Yes. Oh, God!” A moan escaped from his chest.“Please, Andrew. Don’t!” “…when he rammed the potato into the dead man’s mouth.”He covered his face.Carol had to make him understand. “It’s over. But never tell anyone about this. Promise.”“But I…” Andrew could see that some nearby passengers were eyeing them.“Darling! Think of Isabel.” Carol insisted. “It’s wrong not to report it…”“You can’t solve Sicily’s crimes.”“I could identify a murderer.”“There’s no point. Let’s try and get some rest, Andrew. We’ll catch the first flight straight from Rome.”He relaxed the tension on her hand and pretended to doze and she was soon asleep, her head on his shoulder. What to do? Today the impossible had happened. He’d remembered. And now? The umpteenth rerun unfolded. Memories that still made him gasp. He’d gone to the market with Isabel, their seven-year old. His stallholder, Lucia, Isabel’s Witch, who often offered the little girl nuts or grapes, was selecting peaches when sounds - gunshots - pierced his eardrums. He’d grabbed Isabel and thrown them both to the ground. Silence. Pandemonium. Sprawled on the floor, Andrew was face to face with a man, killed at that instant. A bare arm. A gloved hand, shoving a potato into the gaping mouth. Someone leaning over them. Sirens. Hypnotised onlookers. All eyes on Isabel's hand……that was gripping a gun. A gun! His daughter was holding a gun.“Please leave the child.” "I'll hold her." He needed to hold her. Much as it hurt he continued to probe the web of memories. Enquiries. Interviews. Legal battles. Isabel shocked. Carol hysterical. Problems at work. The media savouring the spree. A father and child involved in a mafia murder. He’d wanted to lash out. Instead, they’d emigrated, fled rather, to Australia where Isabel began relating wild stories about Palermo. Shirked by suspicious neighbours, they’d changed house twice before returning to London where she’d surprised them by announcing: “The witch hasn’t haunted me since we came home!” But he’d never stopped being haunted. On a psychiatrist’s suggestion they’d returned to Palermo. This morning they’d entered the market. He’d barely recognised the old Signora Lucia. No recognition from her. Nothing amiss. Just a market buzzing and people exchanging pleasantries. No healing here, he remembered thinking, taking one last look around. And then he’d seen the arm. The shirt-sleeved security guard sitting at the market entrance holding his newspaper. A sword tattoo! A potato! Gasping, he’d grabbed Carol’s arm. Was the guard looking? No, he was engrossed in his reading.They’d fled. Again. As the approached Rome, he wrestled with bitterness, regret and anger before finally embracing resolution. He’d witnessed evil so foul he’d been contaminated by it. Four years of hell and nobody to atone! Enough. He wanted his life back. Let the bastards get on with their rotten killings. Sicilian omertà – see nothing, hear nothing, say nothing – so be it. This was a deed that he knew nothing about. It would be his motto too. Carol was right. It was over. They were going to get their lives back.They were going to rebuild their home.
Burden of Memory
Burden of Memory Grabbing his startled wife’s arm, Andrew Elliot bolted out of their once favourite Palermo fruit and vegetable market, a stone’s throw from the university where they’d both worked four years earlier. A time that seemed to belong to other people and to another dimension.“Get in the car Carol!”His eye on the rear-view mirror, Andrew sped in silence back to Palermo airport, where they’d landed only that morning, returned the car keys at the rental counter and boarded a flight for Rome. “I saw the killer.” he whispered.“What?” Carol gasped. “It was the security guard.”“Andrew, what happened back there?”“There was something about the shooting that I never remembered until today.” “Oh, no!”“I saw a tattoo that day, it was a sword on a man’s forearm and I saw it again today.”“Are you positive?” “Yes. Oh, God!” A moan escaped from his chest.“Please, Andrew. Don’t!” “…when he rammed the potato into the dead man’s mouth.”He covered his face.Carol had to make him understand. “It’s over. But never tell anyone about this. Promise.”“But I…” Andrew could see that some nearby passengers were eyeing them.“Darling! Think of Isabel.” Carol insisted. “It’s wrong not to report it…”“You can’t solve Sicily’s crimes.”“I could identify a murderer.”“There’s no point. Let’s try and get some rest, Andrew. We’ll catch the first flight straight from Rome.”He relaxed the tension on her hand and pretended to doze and she was soon asleep, her head on his shoulder. What to do? Today the impossible had happened. He’d remembered. And now? The umpteenth rerun unfolded. Memories that still made him gasp. He’d gone to the market with Isabel, their seven-year old. His stallholder, Lucia, Isabel’s Witch, who often offered the little girl nuts or grapes, was selecting peaches when sounds - gunshots - pierced his eardrums. He’d grabbed Isabel and thrown them both to the ground. Silence. Pandemonium. Sprawled on the floor, Andrew was face to face with a man, killed at that instant. A bare arm. A gloved hand, shoving a potato into the gaping mouth. Someone leaning over them. Sirens. Hypnotised onlookers. All eyes on Isabel's hand……that was gripping a gun. A gun! His daughter was holding a gun.“Please leave the child.” "I'll hold her." He needed to hold her. Much as it hurt he continued to probe the web of memories. Enquiries. Interviews. Legal battles. Isabel shocked. Carol hysterical. Problems at work. The media savouring the spree. A father and child involved in a mafia murder. He’d wanted to lash out. Instead, they’d emigrated, fled rather, to Australia where Isabel began relating wild stories about Palermo. Shirked by suspicious neighbours, they’d changed house twice before returning to London where she’d surprised them by announcing: “The witch hasn’t haunted me since we came home!” But he’d never stopped being haunted. On a psychiatrist’s suggestion they’d returned to Palermo. This morning they’d entered the market. He’d barely recognised the old Signora Lucia. No recognition from her. Nothing amiss. Just a market buzzing and people exchanging pleasantries. No healing here, he remembered thinking, taking one last look around. And then he’d seen the arm. The shirt-sleeved security guard sitting at the market entrance holding his newspaper. A sword tattoo! A potato! Gasping, he’d grabbed Carol’s arm. Was the guard looking? No, he was engrossed in his reading.They’d fled. Again. As the approached Rome, he wrestled with bitterness, regret and anger before finally embracing resolution. He’d witnessed evil so foul he’d been contaminated by it. Four years of hell and nobody to atone! Enough. He wanted his life back. Let the bastards get on with their rotten killings. Sicilian omertà – see nothing, hear nothing, say nothing – so be it. This was a deed that he knew nothing about. It would be his motto too. Carol was right. It was over. They were going to get their lives back.They were going to rebuild their home.