His steps echoed on the cobbled street, and he knew he was going in the right direction; he clearly remembered that there were cobbles only in the oldest streets of town, leading to St Mary’s Church. He forced himself to stop running, for he knew he was safe now, concealed by the dark in the part of town where he was less expected to be found. He thought that there was only one person who could have guessed where he was going to hide. But he already provided to eliminate the problem earlier on. Know your enemies, was his first rule. There is no place like home, he thought as he slowed down and thought how thrilling it had always felt to be back home. It felt even better than last time, for it had been a long time and for he was both thrilled by the feeling of being where he belonged and by the excitement of having successfully eliminated the problem.
There is no place like home, he thought, while he watched Ettore groaning in the last painful minutes of his life. He had been easy, far too easy. God, he preferred a bit of challenge but he knew Ettore well, far too well. Ettore knew him well too, he had to be sacrificed. He would have spared him if he was not for that. Because he had never betrayed him, after all, and he knew him well enough to know how heavy the weight of the secret must have been on his conscience. And because he would have liked to spare himself the look in Ettore’s eyes when he understood what it was going to happen. The old man had always told him that some people have a dirty conscience which means they have one. Was his conscience dirty or he did not have one? He laughed at the thought of Father Paolo and his psychological remarks. He had what he deserved, and at least he gave him a Christian burial.
He climbed the narrow staircase in the dark. He did not need a torch, as he knew that place better than he knew himself. He was the only place he had ever called home, despite everything. He was angry at the fact that nobody realized how hard it had been for him to leave. They all thought he had no feelings, but he loved that place, and he loved Ettore, and he even loved the whore who gave birth to him and then abandoned him in St Mary’s Monastery when he was six. He shook those thoughts away, for he had to finish his job before allowing himself to give up to his feelings. Father Paolo had never understood that he might not have a conscience but he had feelings. He had no idea of the desperate passion of his hate. He had always knew he was going to have his revenge, and he was proud of the awful tortures he inflicted the old man before strangling him to death. It was still nothing in comparison of what he had to endure because of him. He climbed the last two steps and dumped Ettore’s body on the ground. He was not sure if it was fair on him to rest in that sordid place. He buried the old man there for obvious reasons, but he felt guilty at the thought of leaving Ettore too close to him once again. No, he had to find another place. He looked down the little window. He always loved how you could see the entire village from the belfry; he made him feel in control. He was too dark to see anything, but he knew every little corner of the place. He heard Father Paolo reading Cesare Pavese to the classroom. “You need a hometown, if only for the pleasure of leaving it. A hometown means that you are not alone, it means knowing that in the people, in the plants and in the land there is something yours that, even when you are not there, it waits to welcome you back.” He gave him culture, together with all the things he did not want from him.
He began climbing down the bell tower carrying Ettore with him. He was slowly starting to realize that he had killed the only friend he ever had. There is no place like home, he said to Ettore’s corpse, and began to sob hysterically.