“Daniele… It’s not getting better that way.”
Daniele Carcano ignored the pleas from Paolo Baffi and rubbed the prop’s thigh now as if he was kneading bread.
“Daniele…”
“It’s going to get better, we still have forty minutes before the game against Bollonich and…”
“Daniele…”
“It is going to be hard but maybe, if the score is favorable, we can rotate in Giorgio for the final few minutes so you get some extra recovery and…”
“Daniele.”
The sternness in the tone of Paolo dropped Daniele back into the here and now.
“I’m also worried about Marco and Ercole, Daniele. But you’re really hurting me.”
Only now Daniele realized his fingers were printed in red into the flesh of Baffi’s leg. But what was he to do? They had arrived here with no staff, no support, nothing, … And as good as things went on the pitch, as bad it was off it. Marco Vairetti had disappeared in the course of the opening day and by the morning after, Ercole Pagnin seemed nowhere to be found in the Hotel Etoile either. The baffling resume from Ercole the day before still brought shivers down Daniele’s spine – he had not mentioned it to anyone, they would think he was crazy.
But now they were another match further into the tournament and in the tail end of a perfect storm inflicted upon the Darmeni favorites, Paolo Baffi crashed into Sly Townsend. Neither of them intended to harm the other, but both limped off. With Baffi out, they would need to face their next opponent with a grand total of nine players. And god forbid if another one disappeared.
“It’s not getting better,” Daniele sighed, suddenly feeling downbeat, “it’s not going to happen. We’re just this close” and he holds his fingers almost against one another, “to qualifying and…”
“And nothing is said yet,” Baffi tried to uplift his captain. Usually he was a bit scared of him – Daniele rarely smiled or showed any emotion at all – so this was an awkward situation. He contemplated patting him on the back, but it would look foolish.
“It’s just so difficult, taking care of the games and then Marco went and Ercole said weird stuff about his death and now he’s gone and…”
Paolo looked left and right and eventually decided to go with a little pat. I mean, what’s to do when a man the size of a small van and ten years older is bawling his eyes out?
“There, there,” Paolo said, whilst looking for better words.
“And now we face Bollonich with one prop and…”
“There, there,” Paolo continued – he hadn’t found better ones yet.
A short silence.
“Did you just say that Ercole thought Marco was dead?”
Paolo’s hand froze in mid-air. Why on earth was a statement like that thrown somewhere in the middle of a waterfall of words?
“Not… Yeah, but not really…” Daniele sobbed and he explained his encounter the previous day
[OOC – see previous RP].
“That’s… That’s way worse then our ‘the dude got drunk, you know Marco cannot handle his beer’ theory,” Paolo concluded, his eyes wide open. For being considered as a wise captain, Daniele was doing some dumb moves. “We need to get to the police right now.”
“But… What about the rugby?”
Paolo paused – he wanted to reply ‘it’s just rugby’. But then again, maybe it was best to act as if nothing was too off at the moment.
“I can’t play for us in the tournament like this – I’ll go to the cops but… You don’t happen to have a spare shirt from Marco lying around, wouldn’t you?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well… You do know my brother Piero? Nineteen, larger than an icecream van? Well, he is over here to support us and… How many people would recognize Marco over here?”
His arms hurt a little but Ercole labored on. He hadn’t slept yet for two nights running but there was a voice in his head which said it had been necessary for him to connect the dots – at last.
Tonight he had been paining his brain, why would someone murder Marco Vairetti? The signs were there, all around him! But how could he solve it? A part of him wanted to sleep but as he sat down on his bed, the alarm clock woke him up – ironically.
00:06
Red and bright they shone to him. The last thing Marco had said to anyone, that he was gonna hit the town for a quick beer. An Omersk. In Forsho.
‘OMERSK’
‘FORSHO’
‘MURDER’
‘SEVENS’
This might be a rugby sevens tournament, but the number six was shimmering through it all along. So he could find him…
Ercole quickly ran out of his room, pushed the elevator buttons for the top floor of the Hotel Etoile… 1-six-0. Six. Of course. How could he have been so stupid? If Marco was somewhere, it had to be in the sixth city of this country, right? As he stood there, eight hundred meters above the ground, overlooking the horizon, the dim lights of Manta Island vibrated in the far distance. Forget rugby, he had to get to Colk.
That was last night – now it was already past five in the afternoon. The scorching sun started to lose a bit of its power, but Ercole ploughed on. He congratulated himself for reading the brochure which the Grearish had given, and remembering about the city sizes. But a bit of him wished he had minded the details about the Manta Sealink.
Oh well, Ercole thought, too late for that now and he labored on in his rowing boat. Besides, the coast was in sight now.
Jezus Christ, Marco Vairetti thought, why on earth did it feel as if a train was running through his head – first stop, Boozeville, second stop, Regret. A loud burp and the unmistakable smell of Omersk beer brought back memories. A bit like the
madeleine cookie from Proust but also very much not like that.
They had taken down the Licentian Isles, the first victory of San Ortelio in a World Cup proper and for some reason, this called for a celebration. So he had a beer. And another one. And another one. Then it went hazy. Then he recalled another one. And then it went pitch-black.
With a swift gesture, he checked his watch – a family gift, an analog edition. A quarter past five? Had he hit the deck that early in the day already? Or Christ, was it night? Marco scrambled around, noticing a higher located window – the sun pierced in, almost painfully for his weary eyes. Ok, he would be back in time for the third group match against Suimede. But where on earth was he?