by Richard Amos
I’d just made a promise.
A promise to do nothing.
Why did it burn my insides?
TWELVE
JAKE
I met Lars outside a two-storey house on a street a mile west of the NDSM neighbourhood in Amsterdam Noord. Of the twenty houses, ten on each side of the road, half were being used. The others were boarded up.
Police surveillance was taking place in a house behind me, coppers hidden within the unused house.
Me and Lars stood outside number nine with its peeling black door, exposing the wood beneath the paint. A few doors down, a pink pod had just blinked out of reality.
“Ready?” Lars asked and pulled out his skeleton key.
I had ours in my pocket, just in case, but I knew the copper would have his own. Perks of being in my line of work. Handy for investigations.
We entered the house, stepping into a dark and dusty hallway. It smelled of damp and cigarettes. This place hadn’t seen a feather duster in a long time. Grubby white walls were cracked, as was the ceiling. The floor was dirty wood, some of the floorboards broken. Man, it was bloody cold in here, completely unsuitable place to live in.
There was a door to my left, then one up ahead. To my right the stairs, the red carpet covering worn to hell. The third step was broken.
“I’ll start down here,” I said. I needed to check everywhere, including this hallway. The police had done their bit, now it was my turn.
Lars nodded. “I’ll scope the place while you get to work.” He had a taser out, ready for any kind of showdown.
I headed through the door on my left. A tiny kitchen met me, with dirty crockery piled high in the sink, a half-eaten loaf of bread on the worktop.
“Jake!”
I was just about to get the UV light out when Lars’s voice boomed from upstairs. I was off like a shot, leaping over the broken step as I bounded to the second floor.
Three doors on the landing, only one open. I went to it, finding Lars standing beside a double bed with his phone at his ear, and the body of a young man lying on the sheets.
It stank of sweat and dirt and…a familiar smell.
I took a step back, the room spinning, morphing into a place of pain. The cracks in the walls seemed to expand, wanting to engulf me. Something rustled under my foot.
Foil.
That smell…
It was…this was…heroin. Drugs.
“Oh, shit.”
Lars turned to me. “Be careful. There could be needles.”
The guy on the bed was a junkie. Just like I’d been…was. Recovering…always recovering. Heroin. I’d been addicted to coke, but I’d never forget the stench of heroin—that vinegary smell. All those drug pit shit holes I’d used to visit when completely off my head in those dark days had that constant stench.
I closed my eyes, letting things settle within me. That was the old me. I’d been clean for over five years now. I’d always be a recovering addict. That was the cold, hard fact. Fine. I’d rather that than be a full-swing addict. I’d never go back to that again. Ever. The smell all around me wasn’t a temptation, but a shock. I hadn’t encountered it for a fucking long time, and it’d hit me like a violent wave.
“Yes,” Lars said into his phone, “he’s breathing.”
I had this. It was a testament to my resistance that I could take a step forward, that the smell repelled me, that all it brought up was badness and sorrow—red flags of warning of paths leading to Hell and loneliness and the loss of everything I held dear. Destruction. That’s all addiction ever did and had done—almost destroying me. I was one of the lucky ones. I’d found love in dark places, I’d found the dawn of a new day, and so many reasons to live and be free.
I may always be in recovery, but I’d learnt to give my past the biggest ‘fuck you’ I could muster. None of that shit would ever touch my body again. I didn’t go about praising myself, but yay for fucking me.
I so had this.
The shock gone, the shields of steel up, I walked across the stained carpet, scanning for needles. There were some empty beer cans, even an empty condom packet.
I got a closer look at the body on the bed.
Red-haired and young, looking around eighteen or nineteen. His face was deathly pale and thin, speckled with freckles. He wore a blue hoody and ripped black jeans. There was nothing on his feet. The right sleeve of his hoody was rolled up, a needle stuck into his arm, a belt rope tied tightly to give access to a vein.
“Ambulance is on its way,” Lars said, “they—”
“No! Kyler!”
I span, startled out of my skin by the cry of a male voice.
Standing in the doorway was a shimmering figure.
Oh, bollocks!
THIRTEEN
DEAN
Uselessness. It was the worst feeling in the world.
A movie about a group of animated pirates with hearts of gold ran in the background, Louise completely engrossed, cuddled up to me and nibbling on popcorn.
I was somewhere else, staring at the screen, taking nothing in. Louise was on my mind, this new revelation. And what was I doing about it? Staying indoors, nothing but a waste of space. It was all well and good to have a movie day, and normally I’d be so happy to do that, to have this time with her. But these weren’t normal circumstances.
The Thomas Ark case too, or cases including the goblin death, was also spinning around up there, not letting me go. Too much to know, too much going on. There was nowhere for the frustration to go, so it stayed and spun and mixed together until it felt like my skull would implode.
Louise laughed. “I love this bit!”
I chuckled with her, having no idea what she was referring to on the screen.
I had to stop, to just be. I’d made a promise.
Useless.
On and on and on.
I could write the letter to my dad. Yes. I could at least start on that.
Too much to do, stuck indoors. I had to get out here and do something.
Goblins. I could help with the goblins. Now the snow as gone, I was more likely to encounter them in the cafés and restaurants. In fact, there was a chef called Ronnie I could talk to and it was completely low-risk. Bringing Louise wouldn’t be a problem. Sure, I was breaking my promise, but I already had a plan to patch over that damage.
“Louise?”
She looked up at me. “Yes, Papa?”
“Let’s go out and get Daddy a new mug.”
“But Daddy said to rest up and not go out.”
“I know, but how fun would it be to get him a new mug and see his surprised face?”
“He loves his mug. He keeps breaking them. But you promised.”
She’d heard that. “I know I did, but don’t you think he’d be so happy to have a new one?”
“He’d make a cuppa straight away ‘cos he be full of the spring joys.”
She meant ‘full of the joys of spring’—a saying Jake’s dad said a lot and she’d picked up on.
“Exactly,” I agreed. “Shall we put a big smile on his face?”
“Yeah!” She clapped. “He’ll love it so much, Papa.”
A layer of filth had formed over my skin. Not physical, but there all the same. I was manipulating her to go outside. Yes, we would get him a new mug, but that was a biproduct of my intensions, and that made me dirty.
“Get your coat, darling.”
FIRST STOP WAS Mug Boutique down in Spui.
We sat at the back of a tram, Louise loving to ride them whenever she could. She was glued to the scenery passing by.
Mila lived in Spui, but we wouldn’t be paying her a visit. She was home and refusing to have anyone see her until she was good and ready. Not that she was traumatised, but because she wasn’t in the mood to show off the cuts on her face—which were probably well on their way to vanishing with all her lotions and potions.
I wasn’t conscious about mine. Who cared? I’d rather they weren’t there, yes, but I wasn’t bothered about people
looking at me. I had bigger things to worry about than vanity.
We got off at our stop and went to Mug Boutique. Outside the book shop next door was a green pod, completely blocking the entrance. The owner had put up a sandwich board next to it, informing any potential customers that they could still come into the premises through the back entrance.
I watched it glow, a still blob of radiant jelly waiting to inflict chaos on the world. The most harmless looking things always did the most damage.
Maybe not always.
We entered the shop.
“Goedemorgen,” the shopkeeper greeted us. “Back again?”
“Need a new mug,” Louise said.
“Oh, dear. Another one lost. Well, I’ll leave you to browse.”
“Thanks,” I said.
Mug Boutique was a cave of mug wonders. That was all they sold, in all sorts of designs. Pretty much anything you wanted this place would make for you.
Louise led me by the hand to the relevant section where a row of Lord of the Rings mugs sat.
“Look at this one, Papa!”
“Nice.” I picked it up. The handle was the one ring, although slightly bigger to accommodate hands.
“We should get that one,” she said.
“Why not?”
“Yay! Shall we get him two? Just in case?”
“Good idea, darling.”
I paid for both of the mugs, then exited back into the bright but chilly day. Every last scrap of snow was gone.
In the centre of the square that was Spui, a small stand had been set up. A poster was stuck to it, informing passers-by that this was a Conclave stand.
The Ricci twins stood there, beginning a preaching session. Their eyes fell to me, mouths stretching into grins at the same time as if they shared the same brain.
Anger sparked, but I held back. I had Louise with me. She was too busy looking in the Mug Boutique’s window next to me.
“Hold Papa’s hand,” I said.
From the corner of my eye I saw her look up at me. “Okay.” She laid her tiny hand in my palm.
“The Conclave welcomes all who wish to be cleansed of the sins of the world!” the twins said together, their male and female voices blending to form a powerful harmony. “It is not too late to find the love of God. He waits for you to come home, to repent magic, to pray with us. One day our Lord will remove the pods, will destroy all the magic and supernatural taints that poison so many.” A small crowd of shoppers was gathering. “If you have been sullied with an unnatural ability, come to us, deny the evil within, pray for your soul.”
“Come on, darling,” I said to her.
“Like him!” The twins pointed at me. The eyes of the gathered turned to me.
Shit.
“He is tainted with fae blood,” Elena said.
“And the sin of homosexuality,” Emilio added.
We were regressing back to some dark age. At least, we would be if this way of thinking carried on spreading the way it was. They were rotten apples in the barrel of the world, infecting one person after another. Even if some people didn’t believe all the offensive rubbish, the power of fear was incredible. Did they really think they could pray away the pods and all the things that made up our changing world? With the right kind of social engineering, a dangerous consensus could be formed.
It was already happening.
Louise’s grip on my hand tightened. “I’m scared, Papa.”
“Don’t worry, darling. They’re no one.” Was it a good idea to say that—to lie about the dangers of these two? They were Conclave, which didn’t make them no one. It made them a serious threat.
“If only he would renounce all of this,” Elena continued, “come to the side of light and goodness. God will save you, Dean Tseng. He will. You and your daughter. You live too close to the core of sin that is—”
“Why don’t you move your filth somewhere else?”
Mila. She came sweeping across the square, purple sari billowing behind her. Cuts on the face be damned, then?
“And who are you?” Emilio demanded.
“Annoyed,” she replied. “Some people would rather not hear the vitriol spilling from your mouths.”
“It’s only poison to those of—”
“Boring.”
“You—”
Mila raised a hand, her gold bangles jangling. “Enough.”
“You can’t—”
“Can’t what? Stop you? Are you going to claim freedom of speech? That you have some right to think you can use the name of God to spread hate and fear?”
“You—”
They weren’t getting a word in. “Rubbish. It is you who should fear God, not this man here, not the creatures He made in His image.”
“He did not make werewo—”
“Who did, then? If God exists, who made them?”
“The Devil!” they screamed together.
“Right. He has the power of divine creation?”
They glared at her.
“Your logic is flawed and rather pathetic. One moment it’s the Devil’s fault, the next someone else’s.” She was referring to this trend of blaming Jake. “God’s creations are varied and beautiful, and dark and terrible as much as they are wonderous. I don’t proclaim to know God’s plan, but I know it has nothing to do with you.” She pointed a perfectly manicured finger at the twins.
“You’d dare to speak the name of God, witch?” Elena shrieked.
“I’m not a witch.” Mila retrieved a potion vial from the folds of her sari. “Leave here at once.”
“Those who stand against the dark will never shy—”
“Oh, do be quiet!” The alchemist threw the vial of amber liquid.
Emilio yelped as it broke at his feet. Together, the twins stared down at the shattered glass and pool of liquid. But their fear soon abated when nothing happened. In that synchronised way they had, the siblings looked up with gleeful menace in their eyes.
“God protects us,” they said as one.
Mila folded her arms. “Is that so?”
The amber liquid sparkled, then let off vapours that curled up towards the twins quicker than any vapour should. Each tendril flooded every available orifice.
“What is this?” Elena gasped, her arms up in defence—as if that would do anything.
Amber spots began to appear over the olive faces of the twins, then over their hands.
Emilio yelped again.
Next, their dark hair started to streak with amber until the whole thing was smothered in a glittering brightness.
“What have you done?” Elena cried. “Stop it! Stop it!” She scratched at her collar, at her face, popping some of the boils which reformed straight away.
“It itches!” Emilio yelled. “And burns! I can’t stand it! I can’t stand it!” He was scratching himself frantically, tearing open his coat and lifting his tee. There were amber spots all over his stomach and chest, along with what looked like a pretty nasty redness for good measure.
The gathered people backed off, but not leaving the entertainment. Because that’s what it was. Even Louise let off a giggle, her grip on my hand loosening.
“They’re on my ass!” Elena roared, clawing at the back of her jeans.
“Mine too!” her brother echoed. “And on my feet!
Then the dancing began. They hopped from foot to foot, straining to scratch their backs, or stuffing their hands down their jeans to get at those spots. It was like watching a pair of drunken monkeys.
The crowd rippled with nervous laughter. Some were disgusted, though, and had been taking in every word of the hate speech.
“What have you done to them?” a woman demanded, getting up in Mila’s face, her shopping bags swinging on her wrists. “You stop this at once! They are holy people!”
“If you do not kindly back off,” Mila snapped, “you will be joining this dance.”
The woman quickly scurried away, clearly not stupid enough to start something with the alchemist.
Not that much of a defender of the holy, then.
“What have you done to them?” I asked.
“Nothing with permanent damage,” she answered. “I wanted them to experience irritation on the same level they irritate me with that filth they spew. I could hear them from my apartment, and I do not care for such behaviour in my neighbourhood.”
“Well, why should you?”
Emilio fell over the small stand, screaming as he landed on his back. His jeans were around his ankles, exposing his baggy red boxers.
“Get off the floor!” his sister bellowed.
“I can’t! Help me!”
But Elena let off a power shriek and tore off across the square, almost tripping along the way. She soon disappeared down a side street, still screaming.
“Don’t leave me!”
“Help him!” one of the sympathisers cried.
“Go ahead,” Mila said. “I cannot guarantee the infection won’t spread to you.”
“You’re a monster!”
Mila brandished another vial. “If I hear one more word of a Conclave nature, I’m setting this loose without prejudice.”
The crowd pretty much dispersed, apart from a few remaining folk who applauded.
Emilio was on his feet, jeans back up. He ran, tripped, then got back up to follow his sister into that same street.
“There,” Mila said, “peace at last. Dean, what are you doing here? You look dreadful.”
The best thing to do was just answer her question, not say she looked like hell too. “We just wanted to do a bit of shopping.”
Louise nodded her head.
“I see. Anyway, I’ve been looked at too long. I must return home.”
“Thanks for your help.”
“Of course.”
Never one to stand on ceremony, Mila swept off.
“Come on,” I told my daughter. “Let’s get out of here.”
RONNIE OWNED The Golden Leaf café not far from Jake & Dean Investigations, just beyond the main drag of the red-light district. It served a mean breakfast. If Jake’s epic feast hadn’t happened, I’d be ordering some of their famously amazing ontbijtkoek (breakfast cake) with my daughter. Well, famous amongst Jake, me, and our friends. The Golden Leaf was struggling. It was tucked away in a dark corner along a small strip of water, mere feet away from the foot traffic along the main canals. I often chatted with Ronnie whenever we paid the café a visit, and he was a tenacious goblin. Refused to move to a better spot, always stating he wasn’t breaking with his family history. His father, and his father before him had kept the business going in this exact spot, and he wouldn’t disappoint them. Trying the argument of time changing circumstances, and sometimes you just had to adapt, was pointless. He would not be moved.
