to the hotel. Obviously looking for you, but he found me instead. Handcuffed to the fucking bed.’
His wide eyes are now worried. ‘Oh Jesus.’ He moves in, running worried hands all over my face and neck, scanning for signs of damage.
‘I’m fine.’ I shrug him off. ‘No thanks to you.’
He visibly relaxes but the anger returns. If we weren’t in such a hurry, I’d challenge him. ‘We’ll be discussing this later.’ My hand is taken, and I’m pulled further under the porch of the Pantheon.
‘Yes, we will,’ I agree, sounding as threatening as I meant. He should be worried.
Becker brings us to a stop more-or-less bang in the centre of the porch, and I see a few slabs already broken out and replaced. ‘Stay there and don’t breathe a word,’ he orders, dropping to his knees and collecting a hammer and chisel. He starts meticulously tapping away, being super careful as he does, and I watch, fascinated, as he gently brushes away the dirt he’s unearthing from the joints surrounding the stone.
‘Why don’t you just smash your way through?’ I ask, thinking time isn’t on his side.
‘Because, Eleanor,’ he pauses and glances up at me with tired, impatient eyes. ‘This is the fucking Pantheon. It’s been standing here for thousands of years. I already feel guilty for tampering with something so fucking ancient. Now shut up.’
I scowl to myself, slighted, and do as I’m bid, keeping quiet while he works his way around the circumference of the stone until all of the joint has been broken away. Casting aside his tools, he stands and collects a crow bar, wedging it beneath one side and standing on the end. It doesn’t budge. ‘Motherfucker,’ he puffs, applying constant, jarring thrusts of the bar until I definitely spot a slight movement. I gasp, but keep my shout of encouragement contained, watching as he continues to coax the slab free.
‘It’s coming,’ I whisper. ‘Just keep pushing.’
Stilling, Becker slowly turns a look on to me that suggests I should zip it. Immediately.
‘Sorry.’ I step back and return my attention to the stone as Becker stands on the end of the bar again, pushing all of his weight into it. The slab slowly creeps up at one end, and my hands shoot to my mouth to contain my rush of excited breath.
‘Get that hammer,’ Becker puffs. ‘And wedge it under.’
I do as I’m told, glad to help, sliding the hammer under the slab just in time. Becker’s boot slips off the bar and the slab drops onto the hammer. He wipes his forehead with the back of his hand and drops to his haunches, slipping his fingers under the stone and heaving it up. ‘Should have lifted more fucking weights,’ he says, grunting his way through his task.
‘You can do it,’ I encourage him, the gap between the ground and the top of the slab growing. ‘Just a bit more and flip it.’
‘Shut up, Eleanor,’ he grates, straightening his legs until he’s standing. Then on an almighty roar, he tosses the slab up and it crashes to the ground. And it breaks clean in two.
‘Oopsie,’ I blurt, moving back a little to give Becker room.
‘Fuck,’ he curses, kicking a foot out in temper and booting his hammer across the porch.
‘Well, your careful and considerate chipping away of the joints were a complete waste of valuable time,’ I say as I stare at the broken slab, feeling his fire glare on me. I peek up and smile sweetly. ‘What now?’
‘Now I dig.’ He takes a small spade and pushes it into the sandy bedding, shovelling out the dirt and casting it aside into a small, tidy mound.
Dig? How far down? We could be here for months. ‘Can I help?’
‘Yes,’ he grunts.
‘How?’
‘Shut up.’
I chuck him a disgruntled look and resign myself to doing exactly that while Becker digs for what seems like forever. The mound of dirt is getting higher, and the rain is getting harder, pounding the piazza beyond the porch. My hope is dying with each shovel of dirt Becker tosses to the side, yet I won’t be the one to ask at what point he gives up. Jesus, he’s been looking for this damn sculpture for years. Something tells me that he won’t give up until he reaches Australia. He’s already had four slabs up. There are dozens more.
I study him quietly, seeing clearly that he’s getting more and more frustrated with each plunge of the shovel into the ground, sweat pouring from his perfect