Through Dead Eyes

by Chris Priestley

  But Alex was never going to be like that, he knew. He was going to be like his father and maybe that wasn’t so bad. Women like kind men, his mother had told him once; they liked gentle men.

  Maybe they did, thought Alex. Some women did, probably. But what about Carl Patterson? There was nothing kind about him. Molly didn’t seem to mind. And Dirk? How kind or gentle was he?

  Alex had a sneaking suspicion that women also liked tough men – men like Philip Marlowe. Being kind was OK as far as it went, but sometimes it seemed like weakness.

  He found his place in The Big Sleep and settled down beside the lamp to read. But he could not concentrate. Angelien’s smiling face in the Rijksmuseum filled his thoughts. It loomed large in his mind, as though she was standing improbably close, her lips close to his face.

  But though this image was a very attractive one, frustratingly, it kept slipping out of focus and the background would sharpen until it was revealed in hyper detail. Past her ear, over her shoulder, he found himself straining to look at the paintings.

  As his eyes moved down the page, so his mind would wander back to the Rijksmuseum and the paintings. He realised that he wasn’t taking anything in, so he replaced the bookmark and set it down on the table next to his bed.

  He looked across at the chest of drawers where he kept the mask. He looked at the clock and once again returned to the Rijksmuseum and the strange moonlit painting of the girl and the children in the street. The image of it had infested his mind. It was more than a memory of a painting; it had become more like a thought or a memory of something he had actually experienced himself.

  Alex got out of bed and padded quietly across to the chest of drawers. He could hear the soft rasp of the clock and the distant murmur of the traffic in the city centre.

  He picked the mask up and turned it over in his hands. The inside was smooth and probably made smoother still by years of being worn. Alex ran his fingers along the wood and thought of Hanna and her ruined face and the fire-scarred flesh of it touching the surface as his fingertips now did.

  Again he had the sudden, disturbing sensation that he wasn’t alone in the room. He knew if he turned he would see nothing there. It was worse somehow – knowing there was nothing there and yet knowing, just as certainly, that there was.

  ‘Why did you want me to buy this?’ said Alex. ‘What am I supposed to do with it?’

  Alex’s voice sounded loud in the silence, even though he spoke in little more than a whisper. He had a horrible feeling that he would hear a reply, but none came. He breathed a long sigh of relief.

  He held the mask up to his face and peered through the eyeholes. The view was unexpectedly dark, as if the holes were somehow blocking out the light. He could barely see a thing except the faint glimmer of light catching the clock on the chest of drawers.

  Alex lowered the mask and the light flooded back in. He heard a noise outside and wandered over to the window.

  Looking out, Alex could see a man and a woman walking beside the canal. The woman was walking away quickly. The man called after her and she turned, her face catching the light from the lamp nearby. She stopped, putting her hand to her face.

  The man approached slowly. Alex could hear his voice, though he couldn’t understand the language. But he could hear the apologetic, pleading tone.

  The woman let him approach and he reached out to touch her arm. But she pulled away, turning on him fiercely and shouting, her voice breaking as she began to sob.

  The man stood, head bowed for a little while, but then he reached out again. This time the woman didn’t pull away and the man moved closer. They embraced and kissed and held each other for a few long moments before moving off again, hand in hand. The patter of their footfalls became steadily more distant and quiet.

  Once again Alex felt a little self-conscious at spying on such an intimate moment and, looking away, became aware once more of the mask in his hand. He put the mask to his face and looked through the window again.

  As before, the view was darker but he found that his eyes did get used to it after a few moments. But as they did adjust to the gloom, Alex saw that the view was not simply darker, it was different. The effect was unsettling, disorientating: he felt himself leaning as though the floor had moved, as though the room was now a shipboard cabin, and the ship was riding a large swell.

  He reached out and placed his hand on the wall for support. How cold it felt. He looked out of the window. There was a cold blue sheen to the whole scene.

  The canal-side was devoid of cars and the parking places that would have been crowded with them were not there. The view was recognisably the same and yet utterly different.

  The shops on the opposite side of the canal were not there. Their warm yellow lights no longer twinkled in the ripples and eddies of the canal below.

  It wasn’t simply that they had closed up or suffered some power cut – they were not there. The illuminated signage, the wide windows – it was all gone, replaced by the weathered wood of warehouse doors. It couldn’t be, he knew that – and yet it was.

  A pulse hammered in his temple as he tried to make sense of it. And then he was aware of movement out of the corner of his eye. Dark shapes were moving in the shadows of those dark canal-side streets.

  Then out into the pools of moonlight came the children, scampering along the cobbles. It was just like the painting of Hanna in her mask. He looked up. Even the big, bone-coloured moon was there.

  Somehow, some way, he was seeing the past through the mask. He was seeing the world that she saw when she stood at her window. Alex knew that there was more to it, even, than that. He felt that he wasn’t just seeing what Hanna was seeing, but seeing as Hanna – seeing with a combination of her mind and his.

  The children ran and skipped and played leapfrog. One moment they appeared to be moving in slow motion, the next they seemed to flicker across the scene like blue flames or scuttle with the horrible efficiency of insects.

  But, slowly or swiftly, their destination became clear as they gathered one by one in the street outside the hotel. They huddled as though in deep discussion, though Alex could hear no sound. Then all at once they turned their faces to look straight at him.

  Alex snatched the mask from his face, blinking against the welcome street lights and electric glare that burst in on him from every side.

  He walked to the chest of drawers, replaced the mask and put on his bedside light. He got into bed, closing his eyes immediately, not casting even the swiftest glance towards the hidden mask.

  Chapter 10

  Alex woke and looked around the room, blearily at first, sleep still clouding his mind. But then the memory of what he had seen through the mask came back and he sat bolt upright, looking over to the chest and to the mask he knew was secreted in the drawer.

  He took faltering breaths and his heart thumped. The vision of the world glimpsed through the mask swept back in on him with horrible suddenness, like a smothering black blanket.

  The ghostly images punctured the mundane reality of his hotel room with their inky shadows and wash of moon glow: those pale children gathered in the street outside his hotel.

  Alex got out of bed and walked to the window, hesitating before pulling back the curtain. The modern world was mercifully restored. All was as it should be.

  The shops were already open across the canal. A delivery van was unloading. A cyclist pinged her bell as she rode past, white headphone leads against long black hair.

  Alex rubbed his eyes and pulled his fingers down his face, dragging the sides of his mouth down as he did so. He looked at the drawer where he kept the mask, but only briefly. Then he got dressed.

  At breakfast, Alex’s father asked him if he was all right, saying that he looked pale. He told him that he hadn’t slept well, that there was an argument in the street outside.

  ‘Really?’ said his father. ‘Never heard a thing. I was out like a light. You can always go back to bed and have a lie-in. I’m sure Angelie
n won’t mind.’

  ‘No,’ said Alex, blinking hard, finding it hard to concentrate surrounded by the noise of breakfast diners. He seemed to hear every scrape of knives on plates, every spoon rattling in a cup, as though it was amplified through giant headphones. ‘I want to see her. There’s something I need to talk to her about.’

  Alex’s father smiled and raised his eyebrows.

  ‘You and she are getting very pally,’ he said.

  Alex shrugged.

  ‘S’pose,’ he said. ‘Is that all right?’

  ‘Course it is,’ said his father with a chuckle. ‘It’s great that you two have hit it off so well.’

  ‘We’re just friends,’ said Alex.

  His father frowned.

  ‘I never doubted it,’ he said.

  It was Alex’s turn to frown.

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

  ‘There is a bit of an age difference.’

  ‘Not that much,’ said Alex, blushing.

  His father smiled, half closing his eyes. It was a smile Alex knew well and hated.

  ‘Saskia is older than you,’ said Alex. ‘You don’t seem to mind.’

  ‘Don’t let Saskia hear you say that! Anyway, that’s a bit different, Alex,’ said his father. ‘We met when we were both adults. What is all this? You haven’t got a crush on Angelien –’

  Alex clamped his hands over his ears.

  ‘No!’ he said. ‘God!’

  An elderly couple nearby turned and stared.

  ‘OK, OK,’ said his father with a frown. ‘That’s enough, Alex.’

  Alex chewed on the inside of his bottom lip and said nothing.

  ‘No one says “crush”, Dad,’ said Alex eventually. ‘And I haven’t got one anyway.’

  ‘Well that’s all right then,’ said his father.

  What did his father know anyway? Why was it so weird to think there might be something between him and Angelien? Not that there was. But was it so far-fetched?

  His father had hardly spoken to Angelien. More to the point he had no idea what Alex was like now. His father still saw him as a little boy. He probably always would.

  ‘I’m not a kid any more,’ said Alex.

  ‘I know that, Alex,’ said his father with a sigh. ‘I know that all too well.’

  ‘This is about what happened at school, isn’t it?’ said Alex. ‘You say you’re OK about it but –’

  ‘I did not say I was “OK” about it, Alex,’ said his father. ‘I said I understood that you have been going through a lot. We both have. But the fact remains that you caused a lot of people a lot of aggravation, Alex. I don’t want any nonsense while I’m here.’

  ‘But –’

  ‘Alex,’ said his father firmly. ‘I mean it. You need to grow up.’

  Alex hung his head. His father put his hands to his face as though he were praying for guidance.

  ‘Alex,’ he said more softly. ‘I’m sorry I haven’t spent more time with you. All this stuff at the publishers – well it could be really important. If it goes well, then we could be going to New York sooner than we thought.’

  ‘Really?’ said Alex.

  His father had been promising to take him to New York for years.

  ‘Really,’ said his father.

  Alex smiled.

  ‘This is potentially a big deal, Alex,’ said his father. ‘They are talking about me narrating the documentary myself. That would be pretty cool, huh? Your dad on TV? Maybe the BBC? The History Channel? So see if you can just get through the next few days without causing me any problems. Is that possible?’

  Alex sighed.

  ‘All right, Dad,’ said Alex. ‘I get the message. I won’t be any trouble. I promise.’

  Alex came out of the lift and saw Angelien sitting on her own by the window. A faint beam of milky light had placed a glowing halo around her.

  Alex was rooted to the spot for a moment, staring, transfixed at Angelien’s golden hair. Then he noticed that the manager who was standing nearby was smiling at him and he walked on.

  ‘Hey, Alex,’ said Angelien brightly. ‘You OK?’

  ‘Yeah,’ he said with a sigh. ‘My dad was just giving me a lecture.’

  Angelien rolled her eyes.

  ‘Oh, parents,’ she said. ‘They are so annoying, aren’t they?’

  ‘Sometimes. How are you anyway?’ said Alex.

  Angelien gave him a funny look and then smiled.

  ‘I’m very well. Thank you for asking,’ she said.

  Alex smiled. For some reason he could think of nothing else to say.

  ‘Shall we go?’

  ‘Sure,’ said Angelien.

  They left the hotel and began to walk along the canal. Alex was trying to find the right moment to talk to Angelien about the things from the painting being part of the hotel and about the mask. While he was still framing the words in his mind, Angelien broached the subject herself.

  ‘I had a chance to read more of the journal last night,’ she said.

  ‘Anything interesting?’ asked Alex.

  Angelien nodded and continued.

  ‘Something pretty weird actually. There was a series of plagues that hit Amsterdam in the seventeenth century,’ she said. ‘You probably know about the one that they had in London just before the fire in 1666 . . .’

  ‘The Great Fire of London?’ said Alex.

  Angelien nodded.

  ‘Yes. Before that there was a plague here in Amsterdam – the Black Death, you know.’

  ‘And did the plague kill Hanna?’

  ‘No,’ said Angelien. ‘But it did kill many other children in Amsterdam. At least she was safe inside. A lot of people died.’

  Alex nodded, trying to imagine the scene and, somehow, it didn’t seem as hard as it might. The modern additions to the streets and canals seemed now more tissue-thin and were easily imagined away.

  Angelien’s dance-track ringtone started up.

  ‘Dirk,’ she said, looking at Alex and then turning away.

  Alex couldn’t understand what Angelien was saying but he could tell from the tone that she was annoyed. Angelien ended the call and stuffed the phone back into her jacket pocket. She looked at the sky and sighed.

  ‘Men are such liars,’ she said, turning to Alex. ‘That’s why you like all that fantasy stuff – all those computer games and stupid books. You live in a fantasy world.’

  Alex was both a little annoyed to be lumped in with Dirk and a little pleased to be included by Angelien in the category of ‘men’.

  ‘Not all men are liars,’ said Alex.

  Angelien muttered under her breath.

  ‘What was I saying?’ she said.

  ‘You were telling me about the plague,’ said Alex.

  Angelien nodded.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I was going to tell you how the plague is connected with the painting of Hanna.’

  ‘Yeah?’ said Alex.

  ‘Graaf went into some detail about that picture and why he painted it,’ said Angelien.

  ‘Oh?’ said Alex. ‘I’ve got something to tell you about the painting myself.’

  ‘You have?’ said Angelien.

  ‘You first,’ said Alex. ‘What did he say?’

  Angelien took out a pack of cigarettes and put one in her mouth. Alex leaned forward and took it from her lips and threw it in the canal.

  ‘What the –’

  ‘You shouldn’t smoke,’ said Alex with a grin. ‘It’s bad for you. I’m going to help you give up.’

  ‘It’s none of your damned business what I do!’ she snapped. ‘Who the hell do you think you are? Huh? Huh?’

  Angelien turned her back to lean over the railing and shouted angrily at the canal. Alex had been totally unprepared for her reaction and simply stared ahead open-mouthed.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Alex. ‘I –’

  Angelien shook her head, calming herself a little.

  ‘Don’t ever do that again,’ she said, quie
tly.

  ‘OK,’ said Alex.

  He was determined not to cry and yet tears were stinging his eyes. Angelien took a deep breath.

  ‘Don’t start crying on me,’ she said. ‘Damn it!’

  Alex did not know what to do and stood as still as a statue waiting to see what Angelien would do next. After a moment she took a deep breath and took a long look at him as though seeing him for the first time.

  ‘Don’t do that again, Alex, OK?’ she said quietly.

  ‘OK,’ said Alex. ‘I’m sorry.’

  Angelien turned and leaned on the railing, staring down the canal. Alex didn’t know what to do. He wondered if he was meant to go. Maybe he should just leave and go back to the hotel. He thought about saying something but he felt sure that whatever he said would make things worse.

  After a few moments Angelien shook her hair and began talking again as though nothing had happened.

  ‘Back to our friend, Pieter Graaf the painter,’ she said. ‘It seems that he became fascinated with the girl and –’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Alex.

  Angelien forced a smile.

  ‘OK. Enough sorrys.’

  She took a breath.

  ‘And I shouldn’t have yelled,’ she said. ‘I have a bad temper. That’s something you were going to find out sooner or later. Friends? OK?’

  Alex smiled weakly. Angelien began again.

  ‘He became fascinated with Hanna and wanted to know more about her. He spoke to the servants who looked after her, paid them to tell him what had happened before they arrived in Amsterdam. Some of this I’ve told you already . . .’

  Angelien licked her lips.

  ‘Well?’ said Alex. ‘What else have you found out?’ He could see that there was something. Angelien smiled a crooked smile as though she could hardly believe herself what she was about to say.

  ‘Graaf was told that Hanna claimed she could see the ghosts of the children who had died in the plague. The children she had not been allowed to play with who were now deep in the ground.’