For Hannah
(who isn’t anything like Hanna)
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 1
The plane dipped out of dazzling sunshine into a grey mass of cloud. Beads of rainwater scurried diagonally down the glass, trembling as they did so. The wing tip was obscured and revealed and obscured once again in rapid succession as the plane descended through the formless murk of cloud, until a darkened landscape was laid out beneath them.
Alex rubbed his eyes, peering at the motorway that snaked below the wing’s edge, bejewelled with twinkling headlights. It was ten o’clock in the morning, but it seemed the night had never fully let go of its grip on the day.
The tyres smacked the runway. The plane shook and juddered, roaring as it slowed down, and then began to taxi to the terminal. The pilot welcomed them – in Dutch and English – to Schiphol airport and to Amsterdam. In his head Alex had pronounced it Skipol – like school – and was surprised that it was actually Shipol. Alex’s father turned to him and smiled.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘Amsterdam awaits.’
Alex nodded and stretched his legs, yawning, and slipped a bookmark into his book before closing it. The plane came to a halt. The passengers immediately and noisily began to get their things from the overhead lockers and switch on their mobile phones.
The man sitting next to Alex’s father unbuckled his seat belt and stood up to get his bag. There was a huge sweat stain in the shape of Africa under his armpit.
‘I’d better check to see if there are any messages from Saskia . . .’ said Alex’s father.
Saskia worked for his father’s publishers. He was an expert on the Second World War and his recent book about occupied Amsterdam had become a bestseller in Holland as well as in England.
‘She’s meeting us at the gate.’ His father put his phone in his jacket pocket.
Alex followed his father out into the aisle, grabbed his bag and shuffled towards the exit at the front of the plane.
‘Goodbye,’ said the stewardess at the door with a mechanical smile. ‘Enjoy your stay.’
It was March and spring was slow in coming. A dank breeze blew in through the open door as they stepped out into the rain. The metal staircase looked slippery and Alex gripped tightly to the cold, wet handrail. The air was filled with the angry roar of aircraft engines.
Men in fluorescent yellow jackets and ear defenders stood waiting on the wet tarmac as the passengers hurried to the shelter of the arrivals building.
Alex and his father joined the long and shapeless queue at passport control.
Alex’s father grabbed his arm. ‘Try to cheer up a bit, Alex, for goodness’ sake.’
Alex sighed loudly.
‘Stop wallowing,’ said his father. ‘You’re never going to make anything better by moping about.’
Alex shrugged. His father scowled and turned back to the queue.
Alex took out his iPod, put the earbuds in and scrolled down to shuffle. The opening notes of ‘Seven Nation Army’ started up. The White Stripes always reminded Alex of his mother. She hated them. She used to yell at him to turn it down when he was playing them in his bedroom. It was nearly a year since she had moved out, but Alex still couldn’t listen to them without thinking of her. He flicked to the next song and tried to put her out of his mind.
The sullen official at passport control looked at the photo of Alex and then at him, then back to the photo. He handed the passports back with a nod, and Alex and his father continued on their way, walking through a doorway into the arrivals hall.
A small crowd of people, some holding boards with names on, were waiting for passengers on the other side of a low barrier. A woman in her forties with shoulder-length blonde hair was waving at them. Alex recognised her from the photo his father had stuck to the fridge door at home.
‘Jeremy!’ she called.
The name sounded so different in her accent that it took Alex a couple of seconds to realise it was his father’s name.
‘Saskia!’ replied Alex’s father.
The woman moved through the crowd to meet them at the end of the barrier. Alex’s father put his bag down and they embraced.
‘It’s so lovely to see you again, Jeremy,’ said Saskia. ‘How was your flight?’
‘It was fine. No hold-ups.’
‘This is my daughter, Angelien,’ said Saskia.
Alex hadn’t noticed her until that point, but a tall, thin girl stepped forward. She wore tight skinny jeans and a silver puffa jacket with a white-fur-trimmed hood. Her hands were thrust deep into the pockets of the jacket, which was open, revealing a T-shirt with a picture of the full moon, blue against a square of black night.
She was about twenty, Alex guessed. She was blonde, like her mother, though her hair was longer. Her face was pale and round, and serious despite her smile.
‘Nice to meet you, Angelien,’ said Alex’s father. His father kissed her on both cheeks. ‘You’re studying history, I hear.’
Angelien nodded. ‘I’m working on my doctorate.’
‘It must be in the blood,’ said Saskia. She turned towards Alex. ‘And this must be your son,’ said Saskia. ‘You look just like your father when he was a student. When we were at Oxford, you know? He was very good looking. Very sexy.’
Alex blushed and looked away. Angelien rolled her eyes behind Saskia’s back.
‘Mother!’
Alex laughed.
Saskia raised an eyebrow and turned to look at her daughter.
‘Do you see?’ said Saskia with a smile. ‘They are ganging up on us already. Come – let’s get you to your hotel. The car’s over here.’
Angelien linked arms with her mother and they headed towards the car park, Alex and his father following behind.
They put their bags in the boot of the black Volvo and Alex’s father got in the front seat beside Saskia. Angelien sat in the back with Alex, her face hidden by the fur trim of her hood.
‘So,’ said Saskia as she started up the car. ‘This is your first time in Amsterdam, Alex?’
‘Yes,’ he replied.
‘We’ll have to make sure you enjoy it.’ Saskia smiled at him in the rear-view mirror.
They left the car park and the indicator ticked as they headed swiftly out into the traffic.
‘You are not here for so very long,’ said Saskia, ‘and there are so many things to see in Amsterdam. You will just have to come back another time, won’t you?’
Saskia smiled at him again in the rear-view mirror. Angelien fired off a volley of Dutch.
‘English please, darling,’ said Saskia. ‘It’s rude to our guests.’
‘I said watch the road and stop driving so goddam fast.’
Alex’s father gave an embarrassed chuckle. Angelien looked at Alex and shook her head. Saskia and Alex’s father started up a conversation. Alex tuned it out and stared out of the window.
A double-decker train rattled past them on the rail tracks that ran alongside the motorway. A canal wended its way nearby, reeds growing along the banks.
The motorway they drove along seemed just like the motorways in England – except they were driving on the wrong side of the road. The buildings they drove past looked mundanely familiar: a succession of tombstone-grey apartment blocks. They cou
ld almost have been driving through the outskirts of London. He had expected things to be more different.
It wasn’t until they entered the centre of Amsterdam that the city started to look more like the photos his father had shown him before they left: rows of tall, thin houses whose walls rose up to gable tops that were stepped or decorated with swirls and scrolls. Instead of being straight, like a terraced street in London, the roofline was higgledy-piggledy, each house seeming to compete with the one next door.
‘It’s a beautiful city,’ said Saskia. ‘Although I am a little biased, of course. But I think you will love it.’
Alex glanced at Saskia’s face in the rear-view mirror and looked out of the window again.
His father had said the trip would be a chance for them to spend some time together, although he was going to have to work some of the time.
The publishers were paying for Alex’s father to come to Holland to talk to television people who were interested in screening a documentary to tie in with a new edition of his book. Alex’s father had taken a great deal of time to explain just how important it all was.
Saskia was in charge of liaising with the television companies. His father called her an ‘old friend from university’, but Alex could tell they had been more than just friends back then.
Angelien had said nothing after her outburst. She seemed lost in her own thoughts and intent on ignoring Alex, who looked out at the view. Saskia was right – it was beautiful.
The city seemed to be squeezing in around them now, the roads narrower, the buildings taller and darker. Every now and again Alex would catch a glimpse of a long stretch of gloomy water as they drove over a bridge.
They slowed down and turned off the main road into a narrow road that ran alongside a canal. The car tyres rumbled along the cobbles and tramlines.
‘Here we are,’ said Saskia, putting the handbrake on noisily. ‘It’s a lovely hotel. You’ll be very comfortable.’
Alex’s father leaned over and kissed Saskia on the cheek. ‘Thanks for sorting everything out this end,’ he said and then opened the car door. Alex followed him out and they stood together on the pavement.
A cyclist sped past, large headphones on, singing along enthusiastically, his voice trembling comically as the wheels juddered over the cobbles.
‘We’ll book a restaurant for this evening,’ said Saskia. ‘Do you like Indonesian food?’
Alex’s father looked at him and Alex shrugged. He had never had Indonesian food. How was he supposed to know if he liked it or not?
His father frowned.
Alex hunched his shoulders and shivered. He felt cold all of a sudden. He gazed at the canal. It was so black it could have been filled with oil.
‘Indonesian would be great,’ he heard his father say.
Alex felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. He had the strongest feeling that someone was watching him. He turned and looked up at the hotel, his eyes drawn to a specific window, but the lights were out and he could see nothing there.
Alex turned back to Saskia’s car. The darkened windows reflected the hotel above. Just for an instant, in the window he had been drawn to, he was sure he saw a face – a strange, pale face – looking back at him. But when he turned to look at the actual hotel, the window was as blank as before.
‘See you at two,’ his father said.
‘Great! See you later,’ said Saskia, before waving and driving away.
‘Alex!’ said his father. ‘You could at least have said goodbye.’
But Alex was still staring at the hotel window, searching for any hint that there was someone there.
Chapter 2
The lobby was small and modern and shiny but full of antique furniture. Old paintings and engravings in gilded frames were hung on the walls. Alex did not have much to compare it with, having stayed in very few hotels, but it looked expensive.
His father went to the reception counter and the manager, dressed smartly in a black suit and tie, smiled and looked for his name on the computer before giving him a key. Alex’s father raised his eyebrows.
‘A real key,’ he said. ‘I can’t remember the last time I was given a real key in a hotel. I thought you’d all changed to those swipe cards.’
A large grandfather clock nearby chimed the hour.
‘Yes,’ said the manager. ‘But our customers seem to like it. This one is for you, sir,’ he said, handing a second key to Alex, the metal chilling the palm of his hand as he took hold of it.
‘We have adjoining rooms,’ explained his father. ‘I thought you’d like that.’
Alex grinned. ‘Cool,’ he said.
He had never stayed in his own room before.
‘Interesting key rings,’ said Alex’s father, turning his over in his hand. It was a silver lion’s head, very worn and hollow at the neck and attached by a small chain to the key. ‘Is that the handle from a walking stick?’
The manager nodded.
‘Yes. My late wife would trawl the antiques market looking for anything suitable. She tried to pick objects that might have come from this type of house in the seventeenth century. A lot of the furniture you see around the hotel and the prints and paintings are things she bought. She said that the pieces spoke to her and she just had to buy them.’
The manager chuckled to himself.
‘I wish some of the cheaper things had shouted a little louder.’
‘What’s yours, Alex?’ asked his father.
‘I don’t know,’ said Alex, looking at the disc of metal, with its coiled silver rim, sitting in the palm of his hand.
‘Ah, yes,’ said the manager. ‘That is a brooch. Or at least it was. It would have held a cameo probably, but we only have the backing plate.’
The manager gave them the speech about what time breakfast was and where it was served, and then pointed to a man in a waistcoat standing nearby, and said that he would show them to their rooms.
‘They are a little tricky to find for the first time, I’m afraid,’ he said with a smile.
Alex and his father followed the porter past the small lift and up a narrow flight of stairs that curved back on itself sharply. They then walked along a corridor lined with old engravings of Amsterdam and through a fire door to climb an even narrower staircase that led to a small landing.
‘Here we are, gentlemen,’ the porter said.
The porter put a key in the lock of room forty-five and opened the door. He showed them where the bathroom was and how the television worked and how to control the air-conditioning.
‘Some people have complained that the air-con is chilly in this room. But if you feel cold, just turn this. Any problems, let someone know at the desk.’
The porter walked over to another door and opened it, revealing an almost identical room on the other side.
‘Wow,’ said Alex, stepping through the open door. ‘Is this my room?’
His father nodded.
Alex walked straight over to the window and looked at the view of the canal below.
‘Will that be everything?’ he heard the porter say next door. Alex put his bag on the floor. He had a double bed and there was a table and chairs. He noticed that there were flowers in a jug and a note leaning against it. He picked it up. It said, Hope you enjoy your stay, love Saskia xxx
Alex turned back to the window, which stretched almost floor to ceiling. It was still dingy outside and rain was falling steadily. The glass was a partial mirror reflecting Alex and the room behind him.
He looked at the buildings on the opposite side. They were similar to the one he was in: tall and thin with decorated gable tops. A line of trees partially obscured them, and cars were parked beneath those all along the canal.
Looking directly down, Alex could see the place where Saskia had dropped them off. This was the very room he had been looking up at; he was sure of it. Just as he realised this, the feeling of dread he had experienced returned with its previous force and startling suddenness.
/> Alex spun round, sure that someone was behind him. The room was empty. Empty. Definitely. He turned back to the window, but so strong was the feeling that someone was there he turned to look again.
There was nothing – nothing at all – to account for the sensation. Still, Alex felt so troubled by it that he found himself checking behind the bathroom door, despite feeling more than a little foolish for doing so.
Though he had confirmed that the room was empty, the feeling of disquiet obstinately refused to go away.
Alex returned to the window and peered out into the murk, hoping that the view of the world outside would calm his nerves. The hotel stood on a stretch of canal between two bridges and if Alex looked right and left he could just see both of them.
A couple went by below, arm in arm, hurrying to find shelter from the downpour. Their voices carried faintly through the air, muffled by the window glass. The woman laughed and looked up towards Alex and he ducked inside, embarrassed to be caught spying.
Alex turned round again. The room was empty and bright. It was conspicuously free of dark shadows or peculiarities of any kind. And yet Alex could feel his heartbeat speeding. The faintest of breezes, almost imperceptible, moved the hairs on his arms as though someone had crept past him unseen. The connecting door suddenly opened and Alex flinched.
‘Nice rooms, huh?’ said his father. ‘I see you’ve managed to put your bag down. Any chance of unpacking?’
‘What?’ mumbled Alex.
His father walked across and joined him at the window.
‘It’s a good view, isn’t it?’ Then, noticing his son’s troubled face he asked, ‘Are you OK?’
Alex opened his mouth to speak, but then nodded his head. What could he say? His dad would think he was scared because he was in his own room. Maybe he was. Maybe he was just being childish, he thought – frightening himself over nothing.
‘Yeah,’ said Alex with a weak smile. ‘I just wondered if we were going to get something to eat?’
‘Of course,’ said his father. ‘How hungry are you?’
‘Starving,’ said Alex.
‘Hah!’ said his father. ‘You’re always starving. How do pancakes sound? It’s kind of a speciality here.’
Through Dead Eyes Page 1
