The bells in the church tower of Santa Agata di Madria didn’t ring so often these days. On this morning though they sounded long and hard for the soul of the beloved village shoemaker Guiseppe who had died peacefully in his workshop at the age of 93.

A tall, aged figure limped towards the café D’Agosto on the square, he was carrying an antiquated brown leather bag. The figure was recognisable to all as Guiseppe’s friend, “The English Mister”.

By the time he sat down, his usual cocktail, Torabhaig Islay Single Malt, orange bitters and Vermouth had been presented by Onofrio the barman. The Mister still referred to Onofrio as “boy”, despite the fact that he was now in his late sixties and calculating retirement.

The Mister had a brusque manner and only spoke English, but his generosity (often with Guiseppe’s money), love of gambling and the bond he had formed with Guiseppe meant he was tolerated by the village elders. This dwindling band of denizens waited patiently for him to make good on his promises to pay for the repair of the campanile and establish a vineyard as soon as his money arrived.

Onofrio raised a toast with him “To Guiseppe, a last Salute”.

“There was no fucking finer man in all of fucking Italy!” Said the Mister. He downed his cocktail in one go and demanded another. Onofrio had worried who would pay for the Mister’s drinks now that Guiseppe was gone but, to his surprise the nonagenarian Anglophone took a roll of banknotes from his pocket and offered to buy everyone in the café a “tipple”. (“Everyone” being Onofrio, a lizard and a thin looking cat.)

The villagers that passed nodded respectfully but didn’t disturb, a couple of old timers got wind that the Mister was buying drinks and made their way to the café, but largely the square was as sleepy as always after the bells stopped pealing.

The Mister stared wistfully for several hours, sipping from his glass which was steadily refilled.

Onofrio knew he had shared the great platonic love of brothers with Guiseppe and dared not disturb his reverie as the old man sat like a granite rock staring out on to the flat sea of the village square.

If he had been able to see inside the Mister’s head however, he would have realised that his thoughts were not very wistful.

“Why had the old fool told them where he was?”

“Why had nobody told him who the Urbino boys were? Or of the links they had in Sicily?”

“Why had he not gone red instead of black?”

“Were Guiseppe’s life savings enough to get him to Dubai?”

And most importantly, “Had he covered his tracks properly this time?”

At 4.30 he climbed unsteadily to his feet and crossed the square.

The beautiful Brogues Giuseppe had made him as a gift were hurting his feet, his baggage was heavy and his suit had seen better days but he would have to do.

With a sigh, the man once known as “Lucky” Lucan climbed aboard the bus to Pisa leaving Santa Agata forever.