New chapter... thank you everyone for their reviews. I've just recovering from a bad case of the sniffles, so a few more for this new chapter would really make me feel better. Hint hint, lol. Hope you enjoy.

Disclaimer: Tra la la... we all know what this is... fa la la. Moving on...

Chapter 2

Over the next week I struggled to maintain some kind of normal approach to reality. But my world had been severely shaken by what happened... by my dangerous encounter with that masked man. No one knew what was wrong and, thankfully, I was able to pass off my unusually distracted behaviour as the result of homesickness... culture shock... nerves... my excuses where endless.

I was not foolish enough to believe that I could get away with telling my family, or anyone, about what had happened. As much as I hated to admit it, I was scared witless by the idea of what might happened if I did take that risk. And it wasn't just for me that I was scared. This man had, in my mind, displayed a completely casual view to the killing (or as he called it 'disposal') of people. I could not guarantee that I would be the only person to suffer if I were to tell someone. What if he decided to target my family? My father... Paula... even little Joseph? No... even the thought of taking that risk made me feel physically sick. Instead, I resolved to forget about the whole incident and get on with my life... grateful that at least I still had it.

Easier said than done, of course. An incident like that doesn't exactly just slip your mind. And also I couldn't help being overcome by the constant suspicion that I was being closely watched. It might have been paranoia. Certainly I was much jumpier now, reaching for the nearest heavy object whenever I heard the front door open... but I still couldn't quell the worry that I was being followed.

About a week or so after the incident, barely enough time for me to even begin getting over what had happened, I was helping Paula prepare dinner when my father came in from his work, looking pale and more than a little shaken. He immediately sat down at the little kitchen table, putting his head in his hands.

"What's wrong, honey?" Paula asked, beating me to the question.

He shook his head before raising it. "Oh... it's terrible. Do you remember the gentleman who sold us the house? The man who met us when we arrived?"

"Mr Versi?" I asked, frowning.

"No, no... the other man. He showed us around." For a second I couldn't quite place who he was referring to, until my memory jogged and I remembered the worried-looking face of the Italian gentleman we had met, briefly, two weeks ago. I nodded along with Paula. "Mr Versi just told me... terrible thing... apparently he was found washed up on the river bank just a few miles from here. The police say he committed suicide."

There was a gasp from Paula, more out of courtesy, I suspected, than genuine anguish since none of us, apart from my father, had actually had much contact with the man. But me... as my mind began to tick over this information I felt the blood draining slowly from my face, and my heart began a harsh, erratic rhythm in my chest. I was already playing the conversation I had had only a week ago with the masked stranger who had come into our house. He had said something about not having permission to sell the house... called someone a 'treacherous bastard'.

Already I was convincing myself that that man had something to do with it. Why would someone just commit suicide like that?

"Do they know why?" I heard Paula asking.

"No... not really. Apparently he'd been very depressed recently. Nervous... jumpy. And then he didn't come to work on Monday."

I listened with ever increasing dread as my father recounted how Mr Versi, who had been a friend of the man who had 'committed suicide', had tried to get in contact with him, and failed. Apparently he hadn't been to work all week, and now they knew why... Or at least, they thought they knew why. I had a horrible feeling that I knew the true reason for everything. I felt sick. As quickly as possible I excused myself from the room and went upstairs. Once I was safely inside my own bedroom, I let out my pent up emotions in an violent, disgusted groan.

It horrified me... sickened me, that someone could do such a monstrous act simply over something so seemingly petty as not asking permission for something. Okay... maybe selling a house was not a trivial matter, but it was certainly nothing to commit murder over, was it? In spite of myself, I was filled with a strong desire to confront the man behind this. I couldn't just let him get away with that, could I? An overwhelming sense of responsibility filled me... as if I could have done something to stop this terrible thing from ever happening. Well, that was laughable. There was nothing I could have done... not without endangering myself and possibly my whole family.

But still... I couldn't let it go.

And that's why, the next day, when my father and Paula had gone out into the city together, I went down into the cellar in search of that little opening that would take me to the labyrinth of passageways I had been dragged through last week. With a slight grimace I remembered the bruises I had acquired down there, some of which were still present on my body. I had had to be very careful to conceal these from everyone, since I couldn't find a convenient excuse for their presence. I still had an ugly scab on my elbow from where I had grazed it especially badly.

But when I found the general area where I guessed the opening had been, I found nothing. No sticking out lever to pull, no funny button to press. It was just a wall. It even felt like a wall. There was absolutely nothing to distinguish the grey stones from the rest that made up the walls of the basement. They didn't even sound hollow when I rapped my knuckles (painfully) against them.

"Hey!" I shouted against them, feeling incredibly stupid for trying this hopeless way of contacting the man who (I assumed) lived down there. It was disturbing to think this was the case. After all, why would someone do such a thing? For all its initial excitement, living in what was basically an underground ruin was not exactly a great lifestyle. What would drive someone down there?

And then I remembered... the mask. Could that be...? No. The idea was ridiculous. The mask was probably nothing more than a means to conceal his identity. A part of his so-called 'eccentric' personality. If he wanted to live underground like a mole and hide his face from the rest of the world then that was his decision. But it did not make him exempt from basic human morality, and I was damned if I was going to just let him think he could get away with something like that.

So I waited. After calling out again several times I resigned myself to simply sitting down beside that little section of false wall and waiting to see if he would emerge. Obviously he used this house as a means of entering and leaving the normal world, so he must use it at some point. Even if he did use other passageways, he would undoubtedly come here, I reasoned. He would want to make sure that I was still frightened into silence. I was actually surprised that he hadn't yet paid me a little visit, or left me some threatening reminder of the consequences of spilling what I knew to anyone. It was only the horrible, paranoid sense of being constantly watched that had convinced me to remain silent.

Three days and there was nothing. Every spare minute when I was alone in the house I would go and sit in the basement, usually with a book, to wait for any sign that the masked man knew I was looking out for him. I wasn't entirely sure that he even knew what I was doing, but my stubborn righteousness only grew over the days, along with my frustration.

So, one evening, when my father was working late and Paula was out with some friends she had already made in the past few weeks, mostly the wives of other members of the orchestra my father played with, I sat with my back to the wall and my eyes drooping shut. I hadn't been sleeping too well, given recent events, and in the poor light from the bulb above my head (which I had replaced after last week to avoid any questions) my eyes were getting sore and heavy. My head kept dropping down against my chest. The little walkie-talkie machine in my lap, intended to let me hear if Joseph started fussing, had been silent all night. I was just about to resign myself completely to sleep, when a chill came over my entire body. I huddled up tighter, pulling my knees into my chest. Then a shadow blocked out the light above me.

Thinking that maybe my father or Paula had found me down here, I opened my eyes, ready to improvise some excuse for sitting in the basement, but my voice caught in my throat. Standing over me, as tall and imposing as I remembered, was the black silhouette of the masked man. I could only faintly make out his masked face in the light, but I knew it was him.

"Three days," he said, slowly and deliberately. "Three days you keep this vigil at my doorstep. I'm not certain whether I should be annoyed or impressed by this display of stubbornness."

For a few seconds I was unable to think of anything to say in response. After waiting for this opportunity for three days, the fact that he had decided to show himself had wiped my mind of anything I had initially intended to say. He must have mistaken this moment of speechlessness for arrogant silence because he then asked, in a decidedly more irascible tone; "Perhaps you'd care to explain this quite curious behaviour, Miss Day?"

I started at his use of my family name, wondering how he might have found out, but I recovered quickly, remembering what my purpose in seeking him out was. Unable to think of any other way to approach the matter, I resorted to bluntness.

"I know what you did."

The mask hid his expression from me, but when I spoke his voice was filled with mocking, false innocence. "Now whatever can you mean by that?"

His scornful attitude did nothing to quell my sense of righteous anger and, in spite of the danger of angering him, I went on. "The man who sold us this house... everyone says he committed suicide..."

The man gave a graceful but dismissive shrug. "What of it?"

"I know you had something to do with it."

At this more direct accusation, he put his hand over his heart in a theatrical gesture of hurt feelings and, when he spoke, he was infuriatingly sarcastic. "Oh now, what could make you think such a terrible thing?"

I struggled to my feet now, angry and indignant. Even standing, the man was far taller than me. I guessed he was well over six-foot, and I was barely five-foot six. But I wasn't going to let him intimidate me. "You threatened me, didn't you?" I pointed out. "And I know you were angry about him selling the house."

"Your evidence is unchallengeable," he sneered at me, then gave yet another nonchalant shrug. "Can I help it if someone wishes to end their own life?"

I glared at him. "I know you had something to do with it," I repeated.

"I can see I've already been tried and condemned in your eyes," he commented. "But I still fail to see your point in making this accusation."

Now I hesitated again. What exactly had I hoped to achieve by this? It wasn't as if this changed anything. He was still responsible for the death of that man and apparently none the worse as far as his conscience was concerned. What was I thinking I would do? Slap him on the wrist and tell him not to do it again? So far all I'd succeeded in doing was making him irritated as well as giving him an opportunity to laugh at me.

He seemed to sense this, because he suddenly chuckled softly. "You don't seriously mean that you sought me out simply to give me a sermon on morality?" The chuckle grew into a full-blooded laugh, albeit one that sent chills up my spine. But it did reawaken my reckless indignation.

"Well someone had to," I snapped. "Someone had to tell you that it was wrong."

The amusement faded and died in his eyes and I realized that I might have gone too far with that last comment. I could sense the tension radiating from his body, and I would have taken a precautionary step away if my back hadn't already been up against the wall.

"I don't think you are in any position to question my actions... or my morals, Miss Day," he said. His voice was perfectly level, but I could hear the rigid control he was exerting, no doubt the only thing holding him back from killing me right there. I suppose he had a point... maybe I didn't have the right to question his actions, but that didn't make him right. I might have said this out loud, but I knew I couldn't risk it, unless I wanted my family to return home to find me dead.

"Maybe not," I acceded, hoping that he might calm down a little, "but I still had to say it."

"Would it have burdened your precious conscience?" he asked snidely and I could see the sneer on his lips.

"Certainly more than it seems to burden yours," I retorted before I could bite back the comment. I think I surprised him with this principled declaration. For a moment there was a deathly quiet between the two of us, and in that instant I thought he really would strike out, like a cornered rattlesnake, and I would be done for. But before he could do anything I heard the sound of a door opening somewhere above us, and then a voice calling out.

"Hello? I'm home!"

It was Paula. I saw the masked man stiffen andhalf turn towards the stairs. Knowing that ifmy step-mothercame down and discovered us there the consequences would be unthinkable, I dashed past him and quickly bounded up the stairs. I turned briefly to see him still standing there and without saying a word I reached out and tugged the little cord. He was swallowed in darkness, and finally I spoke up.

"I'm down here," I shouted as I continued, more slowly, up the rest of the stairs and finally emerged into the bright hallway. Shutting the door firmly behind me, I gave Paula a smile.

"What were you doing down there?" she asked, with one eyebrow raised.

"Just looking for something," I replied as casually as possible. She gave a shrug in response, and asked me how Joseph was. "Fine," I said, looking down at the walkie-talkie that was still clutched in my hands. I passed it to her and then headed back upstairs to my room.

Well... I had done what I set out to do. What it had achieved, I didn't really know, but I did feel a little better for having said that what the masked man had done was wrong. I had, however, angered him. Perhaps the only reason I was still alive was the rather convenient timing on Paula's return. It was scary to think of how close he might have been to stabbing a knife into my stomach, or throttling me with his bare hands. All I could hope now was that this would be our last encounter. Hopefully I could put this whole matter out of my head now and move on with my life.

This, as it turned out, proved to be a lot easier as the days went past. Not so much because the memory was leaving me, but more the fact that preparations were now being made for me to return to England and the potential nightmare that would be boarding school, something that pretty much cleared my mind of every other problem. I had never been to boarding school, and had little to no idea of what it would be like. Before catching the plane to Rome I had gone to my future school and, although it looked wonderful, I couldn't help feeling intimidated by its size and by the people. And obviously I worried about making new friends.

One comfort I did manage to reap from the idea of leaving for England was that I might escape the masked man, whose presence seemed all about me. Whenever I felt a break in my rushed schedule of preparation, I would be overwhelmed by the certainty that I was being watched. At least in England I would be free of that. I might be able to relax completely for even a few moments.

So my days were spent mostly by packing my belongings or going out into the city to fetch things that I would require. Any spare moment I had I tried to distract myself from thoughts about what was to come. I immersed myself in my favourite past-times, reading, writing in my diary, but particularly my music. At my previous school, my music teacher had made me a few cassettes of her playing various warm up exercises and songs which I could then take home and practice with. So now, whenever I was alone in the house I would slip in one of the cassettes and walk slowly up and down the length of my room with the music sheets held in my hands.

Mostly I sang opera... classic arias from The Magic Flute, La Boheme and, in keeping with my Italian surroundings, Verdi's Otello. But my taste varied, and sometimes I sang West End musicals, some more spiritual pieces such as Panis Angelicus... anything that happened to turn up on the tapes I played.

I preferred practising alone. It wasn't anything to do with being shy, although like most people I got the butterflies when I was about to perform. It was just... I found it easier that way. Just like I found walking about the room helped me get into the song. Often I'd find myself making emphatic gestures towards the ceiling and various items of furniture while I sang. Even though I had heard that the best opera singers didn't need to move about on stage to hold the rapt attention of the audience, I found the emotions came more naturally this way and I reasoned that this was only practice.

As the last days approached, however, I found that even music didn't calm me down. I grew more restless and agitated about going back to England, almost to the point where I wanted to refuse to go. The only reasons I didn't do this because I didn't want to make things difficult for my father and also it would be a relief to escape Italy, where the weather was scorching, I couldn't understand the people and I was haunted by the memory of a certain masked man.

I was beginning to think there was nowhere for me to escape to.