Through Dead Eyes

by Chris Priestley

  ‘I got into trouble at school,’ he said.

  ‘You don’t have to –’ began Angelien.

  ‘I want to,’ said Alex, looking back towards the water. ‘There was this girl. After Mum left. Molly Ryman. I went a bit crazy about her.’

  Alex closed his eyes and hung his head.

  ‘So?’ said Angelien. ‘That doesn’t sound such a crime.’

  ‘No, you don’t understand. I used to follow her everywhere. When she said she wouldn’t go out with me, I was . . . I was . . . I can’t really describe it. I sent her all these emails and left loads of messages for her on Facebook until she de-friended me and changed her email, but by then her parents had got involved and told the school . . .’

  Alex closed his eyes and a tear rolled down his cheek.

  ‘That’s why I’m here,’ said Alex. ‘My dad thought it might be a good idea to take some time off school. If it hadn’t been for the divorce, they might have excluded me for cyber-bullying or harassment or something. I think if my dad wasn’t so well known they’d have done it anyway.’

  Angelien took him by the shoulders and turned him round to face her, but he could not make eye contact, staring instead at the cobbles between them.

  ‘Thank you for telling me,’ she whispered. ‘You must not beat yourself up about it, Alex. What you did was wrong, but you are hurting. Anyone can see that.’

  She put her arm round him and pulled him close. She felt soft and warm against him and her hair stroked his cheek. The moment seemed to last an hour.

  ‘We cannot always help who we love,’ said Angelien. ‘Or how we love. But we are in Amsterdam, a city that has known more than its fair share of pain and sadness, and yet here we are. Your sins are very small here. Let’s forget about them, huh? What do you say?’

  Alex smiled, wiping his face dry with the back of his hand and nodding. As he did so, it began to rain.

  ‘OK then,’ she said. ‘Back to the hotel, huh?’

  Alex nodded as raindrops began to dot the pavement.

  Chapter 8

  When he got back to his room, Alex couldn’t stop thinking about Angelien. He seemed to feel her hair against his cheek again. Alex wondered what a girl like Angelien saw in someone like Dirk. But girls were weird like that. They said they liked boys who were kind and treated them with respect, and then the next minute they were snogging some creep – like Molly with Carl Patterson.

  Alex smiled, imagining the look on Carl Patterson’s face if he had seen Alex with Angelien. Or the look on Molly Ryman’s face for that matter. But Alex’s smile disappeared at the memory of Molly.

  The Alex that had pestered Molly Ryman seemed like a different person. He had become hypnotised, obsessed. He felt genuinely sorry for the hurt he had caused but in truth he could barely remember doing anything. It was as though he had been in a kind of trance. He had tried to explain this to his father, but he had said that Alex was just trying to avoid taking responsibility.

  Alex pulled out the postcards from the Rijksmuseum and looked at them. They seemed so ordinary compared to the actual paintings. Shrunken to this size, Van Kampen did not seem quite so intimidating.

  But even as Alex had that thought, it was as if a window was thrown open on to a winter’s night and a cold draught played across his neck and back. He looked at the painting of Hanna at the window and went over to get his mask to compare.

  The shape, the eye sockets, the angle of the smile – they all seemed very similar. But at this scale it was hard to be sure. Alex had an idea. He left the cards in his room and headed down to the lobby.

  ‘Excuse me,’ he said to the woman on reception. ‘Do you have a magnifying glass?’

  ‘I’m sorry?’ she said.

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Alex, realising how strange the request might seem.

  ‘A magnifying glass, is it?’ said the manager stepping out from his office. ‘We do indeed.’

  He rummaged in a drawer and produced a large magnifying glass. He smiled and handed it over to Alex.

  ‘Some of our older customers sometimes forget their glasses and they use this to read the newspaper,’ he said. ‘I use it myself sometimes. The print is so small these days.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Alex.

  ‘Off to solve a murder?’ said the manager.

  ‘Huh?’ said Alex.

  ‘The magnifying glass?’ said the manager. ‘Like your Sherlock Holmes? “Elementary, my dear Watson.” ’

  ‘Oh,’ said Alex with a nod. ‘Yeah.’

  Alex went back to his room. He lifted the postcard to his face, holding the magnifying glass over it, studying the details of the painting.

  The lens seemed to have a magical effect. It not only magnified, it seemed to sharpen the image and throw the detail into startling 3D. The shadows became deep wells of darkness, the mask and the moon the only real points of light in the whole picture. The ghostly children were particularly vivid. Alex moved the glass across to look at Hanna herself.

  The masks were identical; Alex could see this now with terrible clarity. There could be no argument. Every detail was the same, every carved wrinkle. So much so, that Alex found looking from the painted mask to his mask and back again was dizzying. It was an impossible degree of detail; impossible and yet there it was.

  Alex put the card down and picked up the portrait of Van Kampen, looking into the face of the man who walked these rooms all those centuries ago. His coldness seemed to outlive him; it seemed to have infected this part of the building.

  Then Alex noticed the cane he was holding and squinted at the postcard, not quite able to believe what he was seeing. He held the magnifying glass in front of the handle of the cane and, no matter how many times he looked, he was absolutely sure that it was the same as the one hanging from his father’s key.

  Alex picked up the card showing Hanna again. The vertigo he had felt in the gallery looking at the actual painting now returned as he focused on what Hanna was wearing, finding what he hoped he would not but somehow knew he would.

  Alex was aware that he was seeing an impossible amount of detail, as though he was able to climb into the painting and inspect anything he liked.

  Sure enough, there on Hanna’s dress, beneath the lace collar, was a brooch with a small cameo in the centre. Alex picked up his key and saw the remains of that brooch hanging from it. Looking again, he could see now that the clock that ticked in his room was also ticking in the shadows behind Hanna.

  How could this be? It was as if the room, the hotel, were acting like a magnet, attracting these objects back to the place where they belonged.

  Somehow the manager’s wife had been an unwitting courier in this process, and now whatever had possessed her to buy these things was working its will on Alex.

  Alex peered at the mask on the bed before him. He knew for sure now: this wasn’t some replica of the one in the painting; it was the same mask.

  ‘Ready?’ said his father as he came through their connecting door.

  Alex jumped, fumbling the postcards and dropping one on the floor.

  ‘You should knock,’ said Alex, picking them up.

  ‘Why?’ said his father. ‘What are you up to?’

  ‘Nothing,’ said Alex. ‘That’s not the point.’

  ‘All right,’ said his father. ‘Don’t get all stroppy about it. I’ll knock next time, OK?’

  Alex grunted and put the postcards on the chest of drawers. His father leaned over and looked at them.

  ‘What are these?’ he asked, picking one up and peering at it.

  ‘Just some postcards,’ said Alex. ‘Angelien took me to the Rijksmuseum today.’

  ‘Really?’ said his father, his eyebrows arching. ‘I wouldn’t have thought that was your thing.’

  Alex’s mind was still struggling to cope with the idea of the former contents of the room being drawn back somehow.

  ‘I’m interested in loads of things you don’t know about,’ said Alex. ‘Just because it i
sn’t World War Two. Anyway, Angelien makes it interesting.’

  ‘Oh,’ said his father, nodding his head and smiling. ‘I see.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ said Alex.

  ‘Nothing,’ said his father. ‘Are you OK?’

  ‘Me? Yeah,’ said Alex. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘That’s OK. Come on. Let’s go. I’m starving.’

  The restaurant was in a small street off the Prinsengracht and was small and cave-like. There were very few tables but all were occupied, mainly by earnest-looking couples lit by the glow of tea lights. At the far end of the room, he could see Saskia waving. Angelien turned to face them, smiling.

  ‘Hello again,’ said Saskia. ‘Sit down, sit down. They’d put us over by the door but there was such a chilly draught I got them to move us over here.’

  ‘Any further,’ said Alex’s father. ‘And we’d be in the kitchen cooking the food.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ said Saskia. ‘I love being near the kitchen in a restaurant. I love to smell all the aromas and hear the sizzle of the food being cooked.’

  She said these words looking straight at Alex and he smiled, not really knowing what to say in response.

  ‘How did you enjoy yourself today?’ said Saskia. ‘I hear my daughter took you to the Rijksmuseum. Do you like art, Alex?’

  Alex cast a quick glance at his father.

  ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘I do like paintings. I like a bit more colour though.’

  Saskia chuckled.

  Alex’s mind was pulled back to the postcards. He needed to talk to Angelien.

  ‘They can be a little sombre, it’s true,’ Saskia said. ‘But if you like colour you should get Angelien to take you to the Van Gogh museum, Alex. Do you like Van Gogh?’

  ‘That’s the way they pronounce Van Gogh’s name here,’ said Alex’s father, seeing his son’s puzzled face. ‘Van “Hoch” – like Loch Ness.’

  ‘It’s not how we pronounce it here,’ said Saskia frowning. ‘It is how his name should be pronounced. Not “Van Goff” or “Van Go”. It is not so hard to pronounce a man’s name correctly, is it?’

  ‘Wine?’ said the waitress as she came over.

  ‘Oh – whatever you’re drinking, Saskia,’ said Alex’s father.

  ‘Another glass of Sangiovese,’ said Saskia. ‘And what about you, Alex. Coke? Juice?’

  ‘No thanks,’ said Alex. ‘Water’s fine. I’m really thirsty.’

  The waitress handed them the menus and pointed to the specials of the day on a large blackboard nearby. Alex peered at the board, looking for words he understood.

  ‘Jeremy tells me you bought a mask in the antiques market?’ said Saskia, when they had ordered their food.

  ‘Yes,’ said Alex, glancing at Angelien.

  Alex’s father sighed and shook his head.

  ‘What were you thinking of, letting Alex buy that thing, Angelien?’ he said without looking up from the menu. ‘What a waste of money.’

  ‘Actually,’ said Angelien. ‘I’m not an expert but I think Alex may have got a bargain. It looks like it might be a very old Japanese noh mask. I think it may be worth a lot more than twenty euros.’

  Alex’s father smiled and shook his head.

  ‘You don’t think so?’ said Angelien.

  ‘No,’ said his father. ‘I would bet twenty euros it’s a fake.’

  ‘You haven’t even looked at it, Dad,’ said Alex. ‘How would you know?’

  ‘Historians just have a nose for this kind of thing,’ he said with a smile.

  Angelien frowned and pouted her lips but made no reply.

  ‘Anyway,’ said Saskia, trying to lighten the mood. ‘Sometimes it’s hard to explain why we buy such things. Sometimes they just seem irresistible. Did the person who sold it to you tell you something interesting about it?’

  ‘No,’ said Alex. ‘I don’t know why I bought it really.’

  Alex’s father sighed and shook his head again.

  ‘You could always try to take it back,’ he said.

  ‘No!’ said Alex loudly enough to attract the attention of the diners around them. He was surprised at the vehemence of his own voice.

  ‘OK,’ said his father firmly. ‘Calm down.’

  ‘Oh, leave him alone, Jeremy,’ said Saskia. ‘They wouldn’t take it back anyway, would they, Angelien?’

  Angelien shook her head.

  ‘No chance,’ she said.

  Alex’s father opened his mouth to say something else but Saskia jumped in ahead of him and began telling a story about an Italian restaurant she had been to in Rome where the kitchen had caught fire. Alex caught Angelien’s eye and smiled to himself.

  Talk of the mask put Alex on edge once more and he forced himself to concentrate on the conversation around him to stop himself thinking about it. It was too weird.

  ‘Well that was excellent,’ said Alex’s father when they had all finished.

  ‘It really was,’ said Alex.

  He had eaten more than he had intended to and his stomach felt as though it was about to burst. Saskia could not have looked more pleased had she cooked the meal herself.

  ‘Have you had enough?’ she asked.

  ‘I have,’ said Alex’s father. ‘I’m stuffed.’

  ‘Me too,’ said Alex.

  ‘But don’t let us stop you,’ said Alex’s father.

  ‘No, no, no,’ said Saskia with a chuckle. ‘We have to watch our weight, don’t we, Angelien?’

  Angelien looked at Alex and shook her head witheringly. Saskia ignored her and waved to the waitress and asked for the bill.

  ‘You must let me pay,’ said Alex’s father, grabbing the bill as it was put down on the table.

  ‘No, no –’

  ‘We insist,’ said Alex’s father. ‘Don’t we, Alex?’

  Alex grinned.

  ‘Yeah, we do,’ said Alex.

  ‘Well if you are sure,’ said Saskia. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Angelien.

  ‘Nonsense,’ said Alex’s father, handing his card to the waitress. ‘It’s the least we could do.’

  Chapter 9

  A large group of raucous and drunken Englishmen lumbered by as Alex and his father walked back to the hotel. Alex could hear them swearing and laughing, their harsh voices slapping against the buildings. It was worse somehow, being able to understand them. There were groups of drunken men all over Amsterdam, but only the English ones made him feel embarrassed.

  ‘It’s not too boring for you?’ asked his father. ‘All this socialising with people you don’t really know? I’m sorry we haven’t had more time together.’

  ‘That’s OK, Dad,’ said Alex. ‘And I’m sorry about the stuff at school. I know you were ashamed of me and everything.’

  His father came to a sudden halt and grabbed Alex’s arm. ‘I was never ashamed of you, Alex,’ he said. ‘I was worried about you, annoyed at you even – but ashamed? No.’

  ‘Thanks, Dad,’ said Alex. ‘I know I’ve caused a lot of trouble. I’m really sorry.’

  His father put his arms round him and hugged him.

  ‘We’ll get by, won’t we, eh?’ he said. ‘They try to put us down but we get back up again, don’t we?’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Alex.

  ‘It’s been a rough time for us both,’ said his father.

  ‘I know, Dad.’

  ‘Even so, I know it must be a bit awkward with Saskia and Angelien.’

  ‘No, Dad,’ said Alex. ‘It’s fine.’

  And it was fine. He surprised himself at how relaxed he felt around Saskia and Angelien after such a short amount of time.

  ‘She’s not banging on too much about the Golden Age, I hope?’ he asked. ‘Angelien? Some historians can be real bores about their subject.’

  Alex smiled to himself. His father clearly didn’t count his own obsession with the Second World War as part of this problem.

  ‘I find all that stuff about merchants and guilds a bit dry to be honest,�
�� said his father. ‘Oh, I know we are supposed to be fascinated by Amsterdam back then, but when you are a historian some things grab you and others don’t. It’s hard to explain.’

  ‘Actually . . .’ began Alex.

  He wanted to tell his father about the paintings and about the strangeness surrounding the mask but he couldn’t bring himself to do it.

  ‘Yes?’ said his father.

  ‘Nothing,’ said Alex.

  His father always scoffed at anything that smacked of the supernatural. So did Alex normally, for that matter.

  Alex’s mother had a much more open mind on that kind of thing and his father would give her a hard time about it. For the first time in a long while Alex found himself wishing that he could tell his mother about this, knowing in his heart that she wouldn’t make him feel foolish for speaking about it.

  ‘Well don’t be bullied, Alex,’ said his father. ‘There are all kinds of fascinating aspects to Amsterdam and they don’t all revolve around the Golden Age and merchants and guilds. When I’m free, we’ll go to the Anne Frank museum. We can’t have you come to Amsterdam and not go there.’

  The reflections of the hotel and the houses either side of it were swaying back and forth on the black waters of the canal. Lights were on in the windows and these too moved gently on the surface, doubling the effect and making the whole street look brighter and more cheerful than Alex had ever seen it by daylight.

  The receptionist gave them their keys and they climbed the stairs to their rooms, saying goodnight on the landing. Alex opened his door, turned on the lights and slumped down on to his bed. As he pulled off his jacket and felt his mobile phone in his pocket, he thought about calling his mother.

  But as soon as he touched his phone he knew that he could not call her as if everything was cool again. Everything wasn’t cool. Not by a long way.

  Alex got into bed and reached over for his book. He was reading The Big Sleep. His father had recommended it and normally that would put him off, but he had recently seen the film and liked it and he thought he would give the book a go.

  He liked the way the private investigator Philip Marlowe talked and the way he handled the daughter of his rich client. Alex wished he could be like that. Marlowe never seemed to let people get the better of him. He always seemed to know the right thing to do, the right thing to say. There were a few people he wouldn’t mind punching on the nose either.