by Rachael Blok
They stand quietly for a minute.
Maarten looks across the room. It is heavy with velvet, but the colours are bright. Modern meets yesteryear with large paintings, but all abstract in vibrant colours, rather than dark oils. One wall has a Banksy-style graffiti painting of a figure wearing headphones, looking at a tablet. The rugs look thick and heavy, expensive, but also bright. Maarten sees Liv’s designer eye darting everywhere. It feels very tech, very fresh.
There is a man at the far end, talking to Marieke. He’s tall, though not as tall as himself and Filip, who are both about the same height, he would guess. Maarten is six foot six. It’s refreshing not to peer down at everyone. To feel less distinct.
The man at the far end of the room has black hair and he is handsome, with a clean, strong jaw. Maarten recognises him from somewhere but can’t place him – until he realises he is a dead ringer for a man he’s seen on a poster at the airport, advertising a watch that costs more than his annual salary. He has a beautiful but dangerous quality to him, Maarten thinks, like he could suck the air from the room with a smile.
Beside him, Marieke’s dark head is bent forward, catching his words, and he feels a flash of jealousy, like a reflex. She once was his. He’s surprised by himself and he looks for Liv.
He finds her; she is nodding to the tall, slim, brunette girl with the blunt fringe, who stands with her back to the wall like she wants to be somewhere else.
The atmosphere is… tense? Marieke and the dark-haired man stand close together, but Marieke holds herself back, slightly stiff. Filip is staring at them too, with an expression of dislike on his face.
‘When did you arrive?’ Maarten asks.
Filip begins answering, his eyes turning to Maarten slowly.
‘Only today.’
‘Who is everyone?’ Maarten asks. He’s got a fair idea from the file, but everyone looks different in the flesh.
‘Well, that’s Aksel Larsen. Let’s say he’s the headline invite.’ He gestures across the room, and Maarten feels the air vibrate. ‘Aksel owns a huge chunk of the tech manufacturing and export business in Norway. He’ll buy up anything for a profit; he doesn’t care about the product. This new game we’re investing in is amazing. Have you seen it?’
Maarten shakes his head.
‘There’s a demonstration tomorrow afternoon. We’re taking a helicopter to their VR studios. I’m sure you could come? The whole game is based on full immersion. You can play with others, either in the same room or from somewhere else entirely. And Lois has added a sensory element – you’ll see if you come. But it adds the feel of rain, of wind, of fire. She’s built it all in – with brain interface next, it seems! There’s nothing on the market like it.’
‘Isn’t that a bit creepy?’
Filip laughs. ‘Maybe. I don’t think they’re talking next week. There are only a couple of major VR names out there and this new game will pull Archipelago right up. They’ve secured a contract from a superhero franchise – major money. They won the contract mainly by flagging up their commitment to limit their slavery footprint – it’s all over the contract. We’re all betting on it.’ He pauses, seeming to want to say something more, then changes his mind. He rubs his jaw, as though he’s unused to speaking so much. Maarten can smell alcohol on his breath. He wonders how much he’s had to drink: there’s a drunken, rambling feel to his conversation – and an undercurrent of anger. It doesn’t bode well for a relaxed evening.
‘There she is, Lois Munch. She’s the brains behind Archipelago.’
Maarten looks at her again. ‘She came up with all this?’ She looks terrified, he thinks.
Filip smiles. ‘I know. Don’t be fooled by how quiet she seems. It’s an amazing achievement. Ebba over there looks about ten years her senior, but she’s the younger one of the sisters. She organises rooms like she owns them. People are her game. Most people in here are putty in her hands. Me included, possibly.’
Maarten wonders what Filip means. There are jibes beneath the surface of his sentences and he feels like he’s missed a page. Filip’s voice is tinged with awe when he speaks of Ebba and he clearly hates Aksel. His eyes are bloodshot. He’s drunk.
‘Their parents were originally from Norway. Their mother died very young, and they came over here when the girls were tiny. The father died soon after the 2008 crash. There was a leak at his company about an issue with a financial product, and everything went in days. The shock killed him.’ Filip quickly drains his glass, which is filled discreetly from the left by one of the servers. ‘To be honest, I hate these kinds of things. If I could have just signed the contract and been done with it, I would. I was going to, but then…’
His eyes cloud, his mouth tightens. There’s definitely something afoot. ‘Yes?’ Maarten prompts.
‘Well, let’s just say, the deal is not necessarily all I thought. Or maybe it is, and I’ve got the wrong end of the stick. Or the wrong stick. However that saying goes.’ He looks at Maarten again, up and down. ‘And why am I telling you all this?’
Maarten laughs. He wonders if Filip knows quite how much he’s revealed. ‘We Dutch have to stick together. And don’t worry, I know nothing about the world of business. Your wife is here?’
Filip shakes his head. ‘She ducked out last minute.’ He glances over at Aksel and Marieke again. ‘She’s the one out of the two of us at ease with these kinds of things.’
‘My wife is talking to Lois,’ Maarten says, ‘and she’s the same. She can talk to anyone.’
A laugh as loud as a saxophone riff reverberates and Filip glances back to Aksel, who is laughing at something Marieke says.
Again, he and Filip stare at the couple. Maarten begins to ask about his favourite café in Rotterdam, but there’s a smattering of applause as another couple enter the room.
Ebba sweeps the two in, dressed in finery and blinking under the sheen of the room, like moles in the light. They are expensively dressed, but they don’t carry it easily. Ebba is introducing them like they are royalty, announcing them to the room. ‘Our founder investors, Richard and Sarah, who made all of this possible!’
The applause ends and Maarten sees his glass filled again. Has he already finished the first?
Filip leans in. ‘And here are the original investors. The Arkwrights. They’ll do very well out of this deal, and as silent partners they’ll have no real concern over the day-to-day running. Come Sunday, we’ll all be looking forward to huge wins. At least…’ He drains his glass again, not finishing; his face twisting in a scowl.
Maarten lowers the arm he’d been raising to take another sip. Filip has had three glasses in the last half an hour.
There is something about this room, this night. There’s something in the air.
Maarten needs to take a firm hold. He has his own secrets to be watchful of. And there’s a tension, like the whine of an over-taut violin string, snaking through the air and the conversation.
Richard approaches them and Maarten nods. He knows he’s too direct at times, no good at small talk. He feels a clutch of panic. Talking to Filip had been easy; it had been like sneaking a peek back at Rotterdam. Richard seems the kind of man who would hang out with his superiors on the golf course.
‘Maarten, isn’t it? Good to meet you. Ebba tells me you’re in charge of making sure these nasty poison pen writers don’t affect our weekend? Excellent! Now, I’ll tell you what I would do in your position…’
Maarten keeps his face blank. Richard launches into a monologue on security measures for grand houses. Maarten is not required to say too much.
‘That your wife?’ Richard asks, gesturing to Liv, who is now speaking to Sarah Arkwright and Lois.
‘Yes.’ Maarten smiles.
‘I’m sure I’ve met her before. Is she an interior designer, by any chance?’
‘Yes,’ Maarten says, surprised.
‘I’m sure she did some work for the firm I’m with in London. A really great job. I’ll go and tell her what we’ve
changed since then. Good to meet you.’ He shakes Maarten’s hand.
‘Nice watch,’ Maarten says, seeing a leather strap and a watch face that even he recognises.
Richard’s face softens, stroking the glass quickly with his thumb. ‘My daughters bought me this for my fiftieth birthday present. They saved all their earnings from their summer jobs.’ Pleasure and pride light his face.
Maarten smiles, ready to forgive Richard’s earlier hectoring. ‘That’s impressive. I’m not sure my two would even manage a cake.’ He thinks of Nic and her furious early pre-teen angst and Sanne, almost eight, singing in the mirror to the latest Disney fairy-tale high school musical.
‘Kids, eh?’ Richard claps a hand, heavy, on Maarten’s arm.
As he watches Richard approach Liv, Sarah and Lois, Maarten sees Aksel lift his hand in a wave of acknowledgement. Richard flinches. There’s a twist about his mouth. And even from only the back of his neck, Maarten sees Richard’s colour flare red and angry. He pauses en route, hands remaining firmly by his side, ignoring the wave, and continues forward. Determinedly.
Aksel, it seems, is hated. Interesting.
*
‘This is something else,’ Liv whispers, slipping her arm through his as they walk towards the dining room. From the high ceilings drip tear-drop bulbs, at uneven lengths. The paint colours that wash the hallways are light and fresh. Heavy velvet everywhere, in plum, apricot, vanilla.
‘This is my dream home,’ Liv says, touching the edge of three words written in italicised thin, fluorescent neon light bulbs: People Before Profits. ‘This must have been a commission.’
Maarten has held back, stepped outside to have a few words with the PC. He looks around.
‘It is?’ he says. ‘Having fun?’
‘Not sure “fun” is quite the word. I got stuck with Richard Arkwright telling me why I should have used damask cushions instead of silk when I worked with his firm. But it’s a bit of an insight. And the money in this room – the dresses, the jewels. Sarah Arkwright is wearing earrings that must have cost thousands. And her dress! I’m sure that’s Gucci. I’ve seen it in Grazia.’
‘Me too, never miss a copy.’
She laughs. ‘Your ex-girlfriend is pretty intimidating. She’s got that older woman, power-carrying, sexy vibe going on. Edgy, though. Not so friendly. She asked what I did, but I’m not sure interior design is her thing. She walked off halfway through my answer! Anyway, I’ve seen you looking at her.’ She winks at him.
Maarten feels himself flush. ‘Liv…’
‘Oh, I’m only winding you up. Of course you’ll look at her. If my ex-boyfriend was in the room, I’d be all over the details. Don’t worry, Maart. This whole house is a revelation. Is she really in danger?’
‘Marieke?’ Maarten pauses to look at a painting. Huge swirls of blue and green take up most of it. It’s stunning. ‘Yes, I think so. The fact that someone knows her home address in Rotterdam is bad news. But they can’t reach her here at Ostle House. This place is clean.’
A red-haired woman in a caterer’s uniform steps aside to let them pass. She smells of cigarettes, and carries a silver tray with champagne; Liv lifts one. ‘I’ve had far too much already, but we rarely go anywhere like this,’ she whispers to Maarten as they pass her. ‘Lois takes a while to warm up, but her job is fascinating. I’m not surprised they’re successful, they have the best parental controls in the business. They run programmes to help kids manage the addiction, KnowLimits, they’ve called it. We should try to get Nic on one, she’s always on a screen.’
‘What do you think of the others?’ he asks.
‘Powerful! The Norwegian, what’s he called?’
‘Aksel.’
‘He’s gorgeous. Drop-dead. Looks like an older male model, or film star, but to be honest, I’m a bit afraid of him. He’s what, forty-eight? Worth millions. But there’s something about him. He’s a bit over-intimate with Marieke. Rude too. Like one half of a divorced couple. Bit different to the quiet one you were talking to. Lois was telling me he’s a self-made billionaire and not even forty. He speaks six languages and he’s married to that film star, Sophie Atwood. Is she Dutch? I never know. I think her mother’s Canadian – I read an article.’
‘Never heard of her.’ Maarten glances back to the front door. Is he missing something? He feels like he is.
‘Yes, you have. We saw her in that subtitled war film, remember? And she stars in a huge role in Hollywood next year. Lois said it’s top secret, but Sophie talks about it loudly after a drink – she’s really close to Ebba, so Lois gets to hear all the good stuff second-hand. They’re not sure if she’s coming tonight. I hope she does. I’ve never met a film star before. The girls will go wild when I tell them on Sunday.’
The dining room is looming, and he feels uneasy. ‘Liv, I’ve got a bad feeling about this. Whatever happens…’
‘What’s going to happen, Maart?’
He shakes his head. He has no idea. Is it the death threats that are bothering him? Is it Marieke, or Aksel who inspires hatred in the guests, or the brewing anger that seeps from Filip like smoke?
‘I don’t know,’ he says. ‘It’s only a dinner – I’m being ridiculous.’ But he steps to the door to have another word with the PC.
‘One more check outside?’ he suggests.
The night is granite black; a werewolf moon has disappeared behind a cloud.
13
IQBAL
Iqbal is hot; the air in the dining room warming still as the guests enter. The musicians have relocated and it’s not just the heat, but the noise. Laughter is louder, smiles are broader. Everyone looks filtered, like Instagram swept through: Clarendon, Juno, Ludwig, #NoFilter.
The room is beginning to give him a headache.
Lois has been so worried about the night. Is it going well? There’s a lot of drinking; the guests becoming wilder, gestures ever grander. They have unpeeled their day selves; claws are sharpened.
The heat of the evening closes in. The candles, the flames. The heat unnerves him. The candles flicker their warning. He can taste pennies, which is always a bad sign. He hasn’t had a panic attack for so long.
Aksel Larsen is interesting to watch. He drinks with the rest of them but seems less affected, touching most of the women when he talks to them, complimenting them, smiling at them. He pays attention. He moves assuming they won’t mind from him what they may all mind from someone with lesser looks, less sophistication, less money, less confidence. He moves quietly, like a ship through water.
Men watch him, hackles raised.
If Iqbal is right about what happened with Obaidur, one of the men in this room could bring down the whole company. But which one?
Iqbal’s not had contact with Obaidur for nine years and for most of that time, as well as working for Archipelago, he has worked tirelessly to find Rajita. With Obaidur’s email arriving this evening, so has his thirst for Rajita. She always lives in his dreams. Tonight she smiles at him every time he closes his eyes. He thinks of the food she would make to feed the older women in the factories. They would often arrive with little, and Rajita would make her lunch, and more for others. ‘Here, I have too much, please take it,’ she’d say. He thinks of how she would hold his hand, when they sat talking at home, how she would touch his face. She cried when he hurt his palm in the factory. She had felt it more than he had. He touches his hand now, thinking of her warmth, touches his own face. Where is she?
The flames from the candles’ wicks dance at the corner of his eye. It has taken time to train himself not to mind the flickering of fire, but tonight is harder.
Richard had been to speak to him, as he often did. For the first time, he mentioned that he’d visited Bangladesh years ago. He’d dropped it casually into the conversation, like you might throw a tissue in the bin. Iqbal’s head spins. He’d asked him when, and he’d answered, ‘Just before that terrible ordeal with the factory. The one that collapsed? Awful. I was in Dhaka. Anyway, I’d l
ike to visit again at some point. It was like nowhere I’d ever been.’
Iqbal had been light-headed. Could Obaidur have met with Richard?
Feeling hotter still, thinking of the heat of Dhaka, the humidity and the daily traffic jams that sprawl in the city like living beasts, Iqbal slips out of the back door to the stone steps that overlook the gardens, coated thickly with night. The air is still warm for October, but it’s fresh. Out here, there is no scent of smoke from the tiny fires in the house.
Along with the reconnection with Obaidur, the warmth of Bangladesh whispers to him. The saturation of heat, of sun that digs beneath your bones. The sweat. The noise, the city that spills out in a scramble. He’s avoided it for years. He’d been back regularly in the beginning to search for Rajita. But she’d vanished after the fire, disappearing under the dust as it settled, while he’d slept off his injuries. There’s no sign of her. Now he works with different charities, authorities and the police to look for her. He’s never lost hope.
Without notice, he finds himself crying and he puts out a hand to steady himself. The noise from the dining room rises and he chokes on a sob.
The moon reappears from behind a cloud and its round ball of whiteness casts a pale light across the trees, the lawns. There are tiny lights in the branches; flecks of bulbs flash like fairies. There is magic in this night.
The pennies. Metallic and sharp in his mouth. He falls to his knees.
The heat of the flames. Images of the factory in Dhaka flash, breaking up the present. They mingle like water and oil, moving together then separating. His head a jumble, slippery and wet.
Shaking, his eyes, open or closed, see only fire. Everywhere. There is fire everywhere.
Smoke, clagging and thick. So real he struggles to breathe here, his chest tight.
Fire! Fire! The shout had come from his left. Screams echoed like gunfire round the factory. Only moments ago, the buzz of the workers had been as usual: heads bent, fingers busy in the heat. The sound of the machines had been loud. As usual. All as usual. And then without any notice, a bang, loud like a car backfiring, and hot shards of metal flew through the air like shrapnel, felling all those they hit.
