“You will be with the doctor. You have no need of a gun.”
Romano is waiting outside the front gate by his SUV and nods his approval when he sees me wearing the hat. I still have no idea what Mrs Bellacci has done to my hair, but I trust them. I go over and open the passenger door.
“What kind of clothing does Gabriel Redbrick usually prefer to wear?” asks the doctor as we drive slowly down the lane.
I talk through my unexceptional wardrobe, consisting mainly of jeans and plain T-shirts from a particular sportswearcompany, my leather bomber jacket in rustic brown and my navy-blue puffer. He nods as I am speaking and appears to understand my choice.
“You like to blend into a crowd?”
“I prefer not to stand out, if that’s what you mean.”
“Were Gabriel more ostentatious and style-conscious, I would suggest we dress him modestly. But I fear we are going to have to work the reverse to make the new you believable.”
“Won’t that draw attention?”
“Not necessarily. Let’s keep an open mind today. But please remember that we are trying to create someone as far from Gabriel as possible. Have you always sported a light beard?”
“No. I am usually clean shaven. This stubble is new, something I've allowed to grow since Albert died.”
“Good. That gives us another angle to pursue.”
Romano drives me into town and introduces me to the man who will help me with my appearance. He sits me down, pulls off my hat and says some words to Romano in Italian. I feel slightly uncomfortable at the way he frowns at me and scrutinises my face. Eventually, he leaves me seated and heads out through one of the doors.
“He has ideas he thinks will work. You will have your ear pierced. We talked about the nose, but he says there can be swelling, so he will concentrate on the ear. He also feels having one eyebrow stylised will give someone like you—how do you say in English—more of an edge.”
I say nothing. When the man returns, I allow him to do his work, with Romano standing over us and occasionally murmuring his approval. Like Bellacci, this man works without mirrors, so I have no idea what he’s doing. Surprisingly, the piercing is not painful, and when Romano swings the chair around to view me, he nods his approval. But the man has not finished. He brings out a trolley containing an unusual array ofinstruments and hairpieces. Working painfully slowly, he shaves areas around my face, standing back regularly to appraise his work, like an artist working on a portrait. He gradually applies some pre-prepared hair, which I assume to be a beard and moustache. Every now and again, Romano points and offers a suggestion. What feels like hours later, he finishes, and I bring my fingers up to touch the hair, only to have them slapped away.
“He asks that you don’t touch anything, not for at least three hours. Now, there is a small changing room through this door. Marco has left some old clothes for you to wear. Go and try them on.”
The worn trousers hanging over a wooden chair instantly catch my eye, black leather Gothic style with buckles, studs and belts. Gabriel Redbrick would run a mile from this kind of garish attire. Even the sleeveless waistcoat in black leather he has chosen for me to wear over a plain black tee follows the same Gothic theme, with thick belts and buckles fastening from one side. While he watches me dress, he mutters something to Romano, indicating my hand.
“He asks if you are happy wearing leather, because you already have a wristband.”
“Dr Romano, this strap hides my watch. It’s a gift, a traditional timepiece, from one of my friends in London. Please don’t tell me I need to lose it. Apart from anything, I use it to time my swims.”
Romano doesn’t hesitate. “No, that’s fine. The watch face is hidden, and the strap complements your new look.”
To finish off, the man furnishes me with a leather wristband for the other hand and a pair of matching fingerless leather gloves, complete with painful-looking studs. I snort when I see the chunky black biker boots with a single strap and buckle.
Once I am fully dressed, the outfit feels remarkably comfortable. I take a moment to adjust myself before pulling off the cap and stepping back into the main room.
Dr Romano is talking to the man when he turns to look at me, and stalls. Even the stylist, if that’s what he is, seems impressed. He reaches into a drawer and pulls out a pair of round sunglasses before handing them to me. I put them on, even though I hardly need them inside, and he leads me to an open door that he closes to reveal a full-length mirror.
I barely recognise myself. With cropped platinum-blond hair, a single black ear stud, a dark moustache and goatee, chevrons through my right eyebrow and dark glasses, I ought to look conspicuous. And I am confident that if Lorenzo had chosen this sort of makeover, he would stand out. But I am not naturally attractive like him, and this transformation gives me an almost risky edge, as though I have a ‘Don’t Approach’ sign over my head. I cannot help but smile.
“When you first came to Italy, you did not look healthy. I think you needed the extra kilos you have gained, and with regular exercise and sunshine, your skin and muscle tone are both much better. How do you feel?”
“Different. Surprisingly comfortable.”
“Good. This is important. The old you may have disappeared, but this new version will still need to be ready for action at any moment.”
The man who speaks no English hands me more bags of clothing. Romano pays him and whisks me off to the next venue. The woman in a small downstairs apartment is suited professionally. She only needs to capture my fingerprints on a glass-panelled machine before taking my photograph using a floor-mounted camera in her small backroom studio. The whole visit takes no longer than twenty minutes, but Romano hands over a great deal of money.
“What was that all about?” I ask as we head out to the car.
“New identification. We will return later in the afternoon.”
“I see. What will happen to my old passport?”