by Louise Voss
Not dead. But talking to police. Oh God.
‘He and his friend have checked out. They are going home this afternoon. I think they went to have some lunch first. Would you like to leave a message for them?’
‘Don’t worry,’ I said. ‘I think I know where they went for lunch. I’ll catch up with them there. Thanks for your help. By the way, is there a Ladies’ I could use first?’
I did actually really need the toilet. It must have been nerves. The receptionist pointed me in the right direction, and I shot off, on legs of jelly. Locking myself in a cubicle, I tried to shepherd my straying, panicked thoughts into some sense of cohesion.
Right. Alex wasn’t dead, but bad enough to have needed an ambulance. He couldn’t be in too bad a state though, because he’d gone out to lunch with Emily. So his injuries were clearly more superficial than had at first been believed. Probably just a black eye, maybe a couple of stitches. I heaved a sigh of relief, then instantly began to panic again. He’d been talking to the police. I just had to pray that Evan had the sense not to mention my name, otherwise I really was in trouble.
Still on the loo, I delved in my handbag for my compact, to powder my terror-shined face. My fingers closed around an unfamiliar plastic bag, which I pulled out, puzzled. I was holding a small Ziploc bag containing a rather large amount of cannabis, a mess of leaves and stalks compacted into a clump the size of a squashed tennis ball. How the hell had that got there?
Then I remembered. Evan, mid-snog last night, had murmured ‘Here’s a little present for you.’ I’d thought he was referring to his large and frankly intrusive tongue, but he must have slipped the pot into my handbag then. I was momentarily touched – how sweet of him! Giving me drugs and beating up Alex for me. Bless. I considered writing him a little thank-you note, and then decided against it. Better for me to disassociate myself, and deny any knowledge of him. I’d have to dump the pot, too. Thank goodness I’d found it before I went through Customs!
I was about to tip it down the loo when I thought, no, while I’m still in Amsterdam I don’t need to worry. I pocketed the bag and decided that I might as well indulge myself a little before going home. I could just leave it in the hotel room for the cleaners to enjoy – if I hadn’t finished it all by then.
I flushed the toilet and emerged, repairing my make-up at the mirror before cautiously opening the door back into the lobby. It was still deserted, but I slunk out with great trepidation and hid behind a large luggage rack with two rucksacks on it. I still had to make extra sure I didn’t bump into Alex and Emily coming back in.
A label on one of the rucksacks caught my eye: Emily Norris-Bottom, it said. I sniggered out loud, stifling it quickly. Could that really be Emily’s surname? Oh, how I’d have enjoyed writing that on the jiffy bag with the magazines/rat, if only I’d known it before. To double check, I looked for identification on the other rucksack and, sure enough, there it was: Alex Parkinson.
Well, I could deal with coming face-to-face with their luggage, just as long as I didn’t have to see them in person. A door across the lobby opened and a very elderly-looking porter emerged, meandering slowly towards me. I was surprised – I didn’t think a hotel this grotty would run to a receptionist and a porter – but still, never mind. Checking that the coast was clear, I was about to make a dash for it when I had a sudden flash of inspiration.
Before I could think it through, I’d pulled out the bag of pot and stuffed it into the side pocket of Emily’s rucksack. Then I scurried out of the hotel, thankfully unobserved.
If she got home without being stopped, she could call it a little gift from me. If she got caught by Customs – well, then she could call it revenge.
I got a cab back to my hotel, determined to relax and enjoy the rest of my holiday on my own. No Alex, or Emily, or Evan. Just the pleasure of my own company, a couple of art museums, a nice restaurant or two, and some good books.
But I was still on tenterhooks, waiting for the knock at the door saying that the police wanted to speak to me on a matter of intent to cause GBH, or worse, attempted murder. How did my life suddenly get to be this dramatic?
Chapter 32
Alex
Amsterdam (Continued)
Right on cue, as soon as the brick shithouses had vanished into the Amsterdam night, a member of the hotel staff came running out to find me lying on the ground, Emily kneeling beside me. I looked up and saw the young woman who had checked us into the hotel; she was followed by a couple of other members of staff; and – predictably – a number of guests who had made their way from the hotel bar to gawp at me. Something for them to mention on their postcards home. I closed my eyes again. I didn’t want to get up. I was starting to feel quite comfortable lying in the gutter.
‘Is he okay?’ asked the hotel receptionist.
Emily said, ‘Call an ambulance.’
I opened my eyes and started to push myself onto all fours. ‘No, I don’t need an ambulance.’
‘Call the police,’ said Emily.
I shook my head, pushing myself to my feet. Emily held me by the elbow. She felt even shakier than I was. I said, ‘Don’t worry. I don’t need the police.’
‘Alex, don’t be an idiot. What do you mean, you don’t need the police?’
I tried to think of a reason that would make sense. ‘It’s too much hassle. I just want to go to bed.’
Another member of the hotel staff, a guy my age, came over. He told us he was the assistant manager. ‘I think we need to call the police. We have to think about the safety of our guests.’ A murmured chorus of approval came from the crowd.
Emily was looking at me very strangely. I said, ‘Okay. Whatever. But I didn’t see much. I won’t be able to tell them anything.’
The assistant manager went inside to call the police and we followed. The warm air in the lobby made my head spin. I sat in a big armchair with saggy upholstery. Emily sat beside me and said, ‘Well, I saw everything. I got a really good look at them. They were big and muscular and looked… Dutch.’ She trailed off, biting her lip.
The onlookers shuffled away, bored. Nobody had died or been consigned to a wheelchair. The assistant manager came back and said, ‘The police will talk to you at the hospital. I called an ambulance as well.’
‘But I told you I don’t need one,’ I moaned.
He looked at me like I was a stubborn and stupid child. ‘We don’t want people saying we don’t look after our guests, do we?’
The ambulance didn’t take long. The paramedics put me into a fold-up wheelchair and pushed me out to the ambulance. The pain in my chest was getting worse and I wondered aloud if something had been fractured or broken. Emily sat in the back of the ambulance, still chewing her lip and looking worried.
‘Alex…’ she started, but I groaned and said, ‘Please, not now… it hurts to talk.’ The paramedic guy beside me nodded and Emily fell quiet. I felt guilty, knowing how anxious she must be, remembering all the secrets I had, but right then it honestly did hurt to talk. In several ways.
We reached the hospital and they wheeled me off to a room where a doctor checked me over, then they took a couple of X-rays and told me I was going to be fine. ‘Nothing serious – no need for worries,’ said the doctor, patting my arm firmly. ‘Looks like you got on the wrong side of someone?’
I closed my eyes and looked at the pretty patterns.
‘Anyway, the police will be here soon, then you can go back to your hotel room.’ He winked at Emily. ‘He’s okay, but you’d better leave him alone tonight. No, how do you say, bone-jumping for a day or two.’
A pair of policemen turned up shortly afterwards. I had expected a couple of uniformed hippies with big moustaches, but they looked like policemen the world over. Bored and superior. They asked me my name, address, the purpose of my visit to Amsterdam, etc. Their English, like everyone in this city, was excellent.
‘Do you have any idea why these men attacked you?’ the older policeman asked after Emily and I ha
d described the brick shithouses. (I think I actually used those words.)
‘No,’ I replied.
Emily was looking at me from over the policeman’s shoulder, her eyes narrowed.
‘I guess it was just a random mugging.’
‘But they didn’t steal anything,’ said the other cop.
‘No. Maybe they heard someone coming out of the hotel and got scared. We were lucky.’
‘Hmm. And they didn’t say anything to you?’
‘No. Nothing.’
Emily’s eyes became slits.
‘And they didn’t try to hurt you, Miss?’
Emily shook her head. ‘They didn’t touch me.’
The policemen looked at each other. The older one sighed. ‘Random violence. It is a growing problem everywhere, I think. Even in your country.’
‘Especially in my country,’ I said.
He nodded sadly. Then they said they would be in touch if they needed to ask me any more questions, and left. Emily walked out of the room and returned a few minutes later. ‘There’s a taxi on the way. And when we get back to the hotel, we need to talk.’
Great, I thought. Just great.
I lay down on one bed and Emily sat on the other. She leaned forward and said very quietly, ‘Why did you lie to the police?’
‘What? I didn’t.’
‘You did, Alex. You told them those men didn’t say anything, but they did. I’m sure they did.’
‘Well… I said, dragging out the first word to give myself another nanosecond to think. ‘They said something in Dutch but I didn’t understand it.’
‘Alex, they said your name!’
‘No they didn’t.’
That made her pause, her brow furrowing with self-doubt. ‘I’m sure… I’m sure I heard them say your name just as we were going into the hotel. I had my back to you – but I heard someone say Alex.’
I opened my mouth to lie, then paused, hating myself. But what else could I do? One of the men had said my name – that’s why I turned around – and there was only one explanation: Siobhan must be in Amsterdam; I really had seen her through the pub window. And somehow she had found out where we were staying and had sent some thugs after me. I wondered if she had been watching while they beat me up, smiling to herself, discovering that revenge is indeed sweet. Not that I ever hurt Siobhan. Scared her, maybe. Inconvenienced her. But surely I hadn’t done anything to merit this – to merit her following us to another country, for God’s sake, and setting a pair of gorillas on me. What was wrong with her? While I was lying in the hospital bed I had realised how stupid it had been to run here. I should have gone to see Siobhan as soon as I’d suspected that she was responsible for the magazines and dead rat. And I should also have found a way of dealing with Kathy’s friend. I had made another mistake.
It was time I stopped running away from my problems.
Except I still didn’t want Emily to know about Siobhan. It would ruin everything; I would lose the only woman who didn’t hate me; the only woman in this fucked-up scenario who wasn’t capable of sending me to prison or hospital. Emily was the only one who cared for me. And another thing – hiding the truth from her had almost become a reflex. So I opened my mouth and told another big fat porky.
‘I honestly didn’t hear anyone say my name, Emily. And I would have heard it – you always hear when people say your name, don’t you? I think you must be mistaken.’
She was quiet for a moment. ‘But I’m sure one of them said something to you just before they ran off.’
‘He said something in Dutch.’
She looked at me for a long moment. And then she started to cry, not making any noise, just sitting there, still staring at me, fat tears rolling down her cheeks. Then her lower lip started to wobble and she covered her face with her hands.
I sat up, feeling sick with guilt, hating myself more than ever. ‘Emily…’
She lay down and turned away from me, facing the wall. She said, ‘I need to sleep.’ I crossed over to her bed and put my hand on her shoulder but she was as still as a rock, her muscles tense. It was hard to believe that only a few hours ago she had been the dancing queen of Amsterdam, surrounded by men, her face alight with happiness. I said her name again and she said, ‘Let me sleep.’
I was relieved. I wasn’t going to have to talk about it any more.
The next morning, as soon as I woke up, I took a bath. My chest and stomach muscles felt like I’d lost a fight with a gorilla – rather, two huge Dutch gorillas, doing their best to send Amsterdam’s peace and love image up in a cloud of smoke. My cheekbone was badly grazed where it had scraped the pavement, and I held a flannel against it. My head pulsated and hummed; it hurt inside and out.
After a few minutes, I heard Emily get out of bed. She came into the room and said, ‘I want to go home.’
‘Okay.’ I wasn’t going to argue, knowing what the guy had really said to me as I lay in the road: This is only a taster. It sounded like a ‘this town ain’t big enough for the both of us’ -style threat. Stay one more night and I might end up saying hello to whatever lived at the bottom of this city’s canals.
Emily left the room and I slid deeper into the water. I felt a surge of anger towards Siobhan. The stupid bitch; she was a maniac; what the hell did I ever see in her? And, in answer to my question, I remembered her face, and her body, that body that was so much slimmer and more toned than Emily’s. I remembered her smell, and the sound she made as she splashed about in the bath.
I rubbed the towel against my bruises, reminding myself what Siobhan had done, sparking anger. I held on to it. Siobhan equals pain – my pain and Emily’s. I had to stop being stupid; I had to stop thinking about Siobhan and comparing her to Emily. Siobhan was slim – so what? I like Emily’s curves. Siobhan is strong and determined and creative and Emily is…
Shut it, Alex, I shouted inside my head, pressing the towel against my bruises again. I loved Emily, not Siobhan. Siobhan was a menace. A threat. And if she did one more thing – then I’d give her a real reason to be scared of me.
After dressing, I went downstairs with Emily and told the receptionist that we wanted to check out, and asked if they could call the airport to get us a flight that afternoon or evening. They were really helpful. It was almost as if they wanted to get rid of us. After that, we went upstairs and packed, emptying our room and taking our rucksacks downstairs. The receptionist had told us that if we were going to leave that day we needed to vacate our room, which wasn’t a problem. Downstairs, we were told that they’d got us on a flight at three that afternoon, and that we could pay at the airline desk.
I looked at my watch. ‘We’ve got a couple of hours to kill.’
‘I’m hungry,’ said Emily.
We went for lunch at a nearby Italian restaurant. My treat, as I announced once we’d sat down. Three times during the meal I almost confessed everything, mainly because I couldn’t bear the dreadful silence that hung between us like a shroud. Of course, I didn’t confess – just made several valiant attempts at small talk, trying to get Emily to laugh by cracking jokes about the waiter’s moustache and the restaurant’s décor. My attempts were doomed. I wasn’t in top form anyway – I kept looking over my shoulder to see if my friends from last night had decided to make good on their threat and offer me a full course of Dutch violence.
After lunch, we went back to the hotel to check out and pick up our luggage. We took a taxi to Schipol airport and I watched the city centre recede, vowing silently that one day we would return, when all the mess in my life had been cleaned up. I reached over and squeezed Emily’s hand. To my great relief, she squeezed back and gave me a small smile. Then she shuffled closer and leaned her head on my shoulder.
‘You do love me, don’t you?’ she whispered.
‘Of course I do.’
That was all she said.
The taxi got stuck in traffic and I started to look at my watch agitatedly, worried that we were going to miss our flight.
‘I’ve got a headache,’ she said, after we’d been sitting in traffic for about twenty minutes.
I kissed her temple. And we waited some more.
Finally, we arrived at the airport, paid the driver and lugged our rucksacks out of the boot, loading them onto a trolley and rushing into the building. We spotted the EasyJet desk and raced towards it. We had two minutes left to check in, but just before we reached the airport desk, Emily said, ‘Hang on. I need the headache tablets.’ We stopped and she opened the side pocket of her case. ‘I’m sure they’re in here.’
As she groped around inside the case, a puzzled look appeared on her face. She withdrew her hand from the pocket and we both looked at the small plastic bag she was holding.
‘What the fuck?’ Emily said.
The bag contained enough dope to keep Ali G happy for a fortnight. Emily held it like it was a bomb, and looked at me accusingly. I hoped that she could see I was as shocked as her. But then I looked up and saw that a member of the airline staff was coming towards us, pointing at her watch.
‘Put it in your pocket,’ I hissed.
‘What?’
‘Put it…oh shit.’ I grabbed it from her and stuck it in my front pocket, turning away from the woman in the EasyJet uniform who was almost upon us. ‘Flight 342 to London?’ she asked. ‘You need to check in now.’
‘Yes, sorry,’ Emily said. ‘I was just looking for my headache tablets.’ She stuck her hand back in the rucksack pocket and pulled out a box of Anadin, brandishing them triumphantly, as relieved as I was that she hadn’t just produced a bag full of heroin and syringes.
The woman hurried us over to the desk and we plonked our rucksacks on the conveyor belt.
‘Did you pack your bags yourself?’ the woman asked robotically.
‘Yes, yes,’ we nodded in unison.
