Through Dead Eyes

by Chris Priestley

  ‘Alex?’ she said. ‘Are you OK?’

  ‘Me?’ he said. ‘Yeah. Sure. I just wanted some more photos of the outside.’

  Alex took another photograph of the roof against the slate-grey clouds. He was feeling better already.

  Angelien took Alex by the arm again and they set off past the pointed turrets of De Waag and on towards the Singel canal. They walked past the university and the mass of bicycles parked beside it. Groups of students were gathered eating sandwiches and laughing beside the canal.

  Eventually they crossed a bridge and came to the Bloemenmarkt, a floating flower market on the Singel canal.

  The sun came out briefly from between the clouds to light up the colours of the flowers on display and Angelien seemed in a brighter mood to match.

  ‘I’m sorry I got so cross with you,’ said Angelien. ‘Earlier. I have a terrible temper, like I said.’

  ‘No,’ said Alex. ‘My fault.’

  Alex did not really care about that now. It seemed like it had happened days before. He was happy just to enjoy the glimpse of sunshine and not let his mind dwell on how he had felt in the Oude Kerk. But he knew somehow that wherever he went in this city, he would be pulled back to the mask and to Hanna and to whatever dark mystery lurked behind them.

  ‘In the old days,’ said Angelien, ‘the growers used to sail up here and moor their boats to sell their flowers. It still floats, but it’s a permanent place now. There’s something sad about that. I like the idea of all those boats filled with flowers heading up the canals and then disappearing again. Much more romantic, huh?’

  Alex nodded.

  The shops were full of all kinds of flowers in plastic buckets. Alex hardly knew what any of them were apart from the sunflowers and tulips – there were lots of different types of tulip.

  ‘These are lovely,’ said Angelien, leaning forward to inspect some delicate red and yellow ones, whose petals curled to a twisted point like flames.

  Without really thinking, Alex picked up a bunch and handed them to Angelien.

  ‘To say sorry for being so much trouble,’ he said. ‘And to say thank you.’

  ‘You already said sorry,’ said Angelien with a smile.

  Alex shrugged again.

  ‘This is prettier though,’ he said. ‘How much are they?’

  ‘You look a little worried,’ said Angelien, laughing.

  ‘N . . . No,’ said Alex. ‘I’ve got plenty of money.’

  ‘You’re sure?’ she said.

  ‘Sure,’ said Alex.

  ‘Then thank you,’ she said.

  The woman at the counter wrapped them in brown paper and tied them with a red ribbon. She said a few words in Dutch to Angelien and then chuckled to herself. Alex paid for the flowers and they set off back to his hotel.

  ‘Thanks again for the flowers. It was sweet of you,’ Angelien said as she left him at the hotel.

  ‘Nah,’ said Alex. ‘That’s OK.’

  Alex stood and watched her walk away along the canal and over the bridge; watched until she had disappeared from view. Then he stood a moment or two more.

  Chapter 12

  Alex and his father made their way along the side of a wide, tree-lined canal, the evening sky a chemical green, the street lights just starting to glow. They were making their way to Saskia’s house. She had invited them over for a meal.

  ‘You’ve been very quiet,’ said Alex’s father. There was a private view going on in a gallery as they passed by. The windows were flung open and the voices of the guests drifted out into the night in a long murmur interwoven with laughter and the clink of glasses.

  ‘I’m OK,’ said Alex.

  ‘What did you get up to today?’ asked his father.

  ‘Not that much,’ he said. ‘We went to the Oude Kerk.’

  ‘Did you now?’ said his father. ‘It’s pretty amazing, isn’t it? All those tombstones.’

  Alex nodded.

  Alex was about to tell his father that they had seen Van Kampen’s tombstone, when he changed his mind. He knew that once he started, he would end up telling his father the whole story and he didn’t want to do that.

  The story was so bound up with Angelien that it had become too private, too intimate to share with anyone but her. He hadn’t been able to tell her everything but he knew that she was the only person he could tell.

  ‘Of course, you must have seen the red light district too,’ said Alex’s father, raising his eyebrows. ‘What did you make of that?’

  ‘It’s really tacky,’ said Alex.

  His father smiled.

  ‘You seem very relaxed about it,’ said his father.

  ‘All ports are a bit sleazy, aren’t they?’ said Alex casually.

  His father chuckled.

  ‘I suppose they are,’ he said.

  ‘I’ve decided what I’m going to write about for my essay,’ said Alex.

  ‘Yes?’ said his father.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Alex. ‘I’m going to write about our hotel and how it was in the seventeenth century.’

  ‘Oh, really?’ said his father.

  ‘Angelien will help me,’ he said. ‘She’s been looking at the diary of a painter who lived opposite and –’

  ‘OK, OK,’ said his father. ‘As long as it’s your work and not Angelien’s, huh? Ah, here we are.’

  They had arrived outside a canal-side house. A small flight of steps with dark railings led to a deep-green door with a small window at the top, divided up into a fan of triangular panels. A large metal doorknocker in the shape of an eagle hung in the centre of the door, but Alex’s father pressed a bell push on the wall.

  ‘Jeremy!’ said Saskia when she opened the door. ‘And Alex. Come in, come in. At least it wasn’t raining when you walked round.’

  Alex stepped across the threshold and into the house, astonished at how big it was.

  ‘Mum’s loaded,’ said Angelien seeing the look on his face. ‘Everyone thinks she is just a poor little editor, but she only works there because she loves it. She has never needed to work – it’s her business after all.’

  ‘Hers?’ said Alex.

  ‘Her father was very rich and she was an only child. He started that publishing house in the 1960s. She owns the place – well fifty-one per cent of the shares anyway.’

  Alex looked at Saskia, trying to make this adjustment in his head. He had never realised the publishing house belonged to her. His father hadn’t said anything that even hinted at it.

  ‘So does that mean you’re rich too?’ said Alex, looking back at Angelien.

  Angelien laughed.

  ‘Do I seem more interesting all of a sudden?’ she said. ‘Maybe if I bump her off. She doesn’t let me think the money is mine. And that’s cool. I would not have studied so hard if I had thought that I was just going to get what I wanted without any effort.’

  ‘Don’t stand there in the hallway, Angelien!’ called Saskia. ‘Bring Alex in and get him a drink of something.’

  ‘What do you want, Alex?’ said Angelien as they walked into a large, high-ceilinged room lined with books all around. It opened out on to another room just as large with a table already laid for the meal.

  ‘I’m OK thanks,’ said Alex.

  ‘How about you, Jeremy?’ said Angelien. ‘There’s a bottle of wine open . . .’

  ‘Wine would be good,’ said Alex’s father standing in front of a bookcase and taking a book down.

  ‘Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?’ said Alex’s father. ‘Philip K. Dick? I didn’t see you as a sci-fi reader, Saskia.’

  Saskia walked forward from the kitchen and stood in the doorway.

  ‘You bought that for me,’ she said with a smile. ‘A long, long time ago.’

  ‘Really?’ said Alex’s father, opening the book and reading the inscription. ‘So I did. Good Lord.’

  ‘You were so excited about it,’ said Saskia. ‘You had stayed up all night reading it and the next day you bought me my own copy and sa
id that I simply had to read it.’ Saskia chuckled at the memory. ‘You were so passionate about everything. It is what first –’

  ‘What was I thinking of?’ interrupted Alex’s father with a snort. ‘Absolute tosh.’

  He put the book back and Alex saw the smile fade on Saskia’s face as she returned to her cooking. Angelien bit her lip and Alex frowned at his father, who returned to the bookshelves muttering disapprovingly.

  ‘Angelien,’ called Saskia. ‘Could you give me a hand? It’s almost done.’

  Angelien got up slowly, looking back at Alex’s father, and walked through to the kitchen. Alex could hear them talking in hushed voices, before Angelien called them to the table.

  Saskia had cooked them roast pork. She said she knew how men liked their meat and winked at Alex, who got the impression that she was already just a little tipsy.

  The food was good and they laughed and talked in the glow of candlelight, although Alex sensed that Saskia wasn’t as cheerful as she pretended to be.

  The evening went quickly and Alex was surprised at how early it seemed when his father looked at his watch and said they probably ought to be going.

  Alex walked to the door with Angelien, leaving his father and Saskia behind in the lounge.

  ‘See you tomorrow then, Alex,’ said Angelien.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Alex.

  ‘It sounds as though my services may not be needed soon,’ she said.

  ‘What?’ said Alex.

  ‘Yes,’ said Saskia walking up behind them. ‘The meetings are almost done and your father will be free to spend a little more time with you.’

  ‘More time?’ said Alex’s father. ‘We haven’t really spent any time together yet, have we, Alex?’

  Alex looked at Angelien and back to his father.

  ‘That’s OK, Dad,’ he said.

  Angelien looked away, out into the night.

  ‘Well, goodnight,’ said Alex’s father. ‘Thanks for the meal. It was a lovely evening.’

  ‘Our pleasure,’ said Saskia.

  ‘The first of many I hope,’ Alex’s father said.

  ‘Goodnight, Alex,’ said Saskia.

  ‘Goodnight, Saskia,’ said Alex quietly. ‘Thanks. Goodnight, Angelien.’

  Angelien smiled at him and then turned and went back inside. Saskia waved to them as they walked away. Alex turned back when they had walked a little way, but the door was already closed.

  ‘You like Saskia, don’t you?’ said his father.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Alex. ‘She seems nice.’

  ‘Good,’ said his father. ‘She is. Nice, I mean.’

  They walked back to their hotel, the nightlife of Amsterdam in full spate. They picked up their keys from the reception desk and climbed the stairs to their room, saying goodnight in the corridor outside.

  Alex could scarcely stay awake long enough to brush his teeth. He collapsed into bed and fell asleep in an instant.

  Alex woke suddenly. The room was dark apart from the glow of the street lights behind the curtains. He had heard a noise but wasn’t quite sure what it was or where it had come from. He wondered if he had made it himself while asleep. He hoped he had.

  His eyes quickly became adjusted to the gloom and he scanned the room looking for something while at the same time hoping he would find nothing at all. It was the same crippling sense of fear again, but the familiarity changed nothing nor did it diminish the intensity of it.

  The room was not very large and, being uncluttered, it was the work of seconds to determine that there was nothing in the room but he himself. And yet he felt compelled to check again – and again, even though he knew he would find nothing there. He could see he was alone, and yet that was not enough to stem the dread. Was he going mad? Was this what madness felt like?

  Alex got up and walked over to the chest of drawers. The mask was on top again, as though waiting for him. Again the floor seemed to shift beneath him as though a trapdoor had been triggered.

  He knew without question that his father hadn’t moved it this time. He desperately wanted to cling to the hope of some rational explanation, but there was none.

  He picked it up. He felt the chill of it seep into his fingers. He walked to the window and pulled aside the heavy curtain. The canal and street outside looked unremarkable. A fine drizzle had made mirrors of the cobbles and they reflected the lights of the street lamps and shops.

  Alex looked down at the mask and then back out at the view. He felt his heartbeat race at the thought of putting it on again. But there was a kind of excitement mixed with the fear.

  Alex lifted the mask. He knew that he shouldn’t put it on, and yet he also knew that this was just what he was going to do.

  He put it to his face and peered through the eyeholes. Once again the overwhelming impression was of darkness – a darkness that seemed to override that of the night. It was a darkness of the mind as much as it was a lack of light.

  All the myriad points of light that only seconds before had illuminated the wet streets had now been extinguished, replaced by shifting levels of gloom.

  Slowly, discernible shapes began to emerge from this black miasma. It was as though Alex was swimming through the deep, deep ocean, holding his breath and searching the dark waters for danger.

  As before, all trace of the present had evaporated, and in its place was the cold and blue-black past, shimmering expectantly like a dark thought.

  Alex could hear the strange echo of his own breath, muffled by the mask he held to his face and stifled by trepidation.

  Then the children came as before, running and jumping. He could hear their twittering voices and the sound of their shoes and boots upon the cobbles and stone slabs.

  His breaths came in faltering gasps. He knew now that he was seeing what Hanna had seen and if she saw ghosts then that is what he now saw.

  And he knew now that it was true. He could see it in the horrible pallor of their skin – like something dug from under the ground, all pale and lifeless. He saw it too in the hollow of their cheeks and the dullness of their sunken, shadowed eyes.

  He wished he was dreaming but he knew he wasn’t. If it was a dream he might wake up. He wished he could.

  But he did not wake. He couldn’t even close his eyes against the vision he was seeing. The girl’s will was stronger than his. Because she chose to look, whilst he wore the mask, it seemed as though he must look also.

  He could feel his brain revving like an engine forced uphill. His head seemed to be getting hotter and hotter, his breaths shorter, and then all at once the floor opened up beneath him and he dropped.

  As he fell, he dropped the mask and the effect was almost instantaneous. Air flooded back into his lungs and he gasped like a man released from a noose.

  Chapter 13

  Alex stared at the food on his plate at breakfast, leaving it untouched. His father asked him if he would like to come into the office with him and see what was going on.

  ‘No,’ said Alex. ‘It’s OK.’

  ‘You’re sure?’ said his father. ‘Everything OK?’

  ‘I’m just tired,’ said Alex.

  His father smiled.

  ‘To be honest,’ said his father. ‘It’s really not that interesting. I just thought you might want a break from Angelien.’

  ‘It’s OK,’ said Alex matter-of-factly. ‘I already texted her. We’re meeting here a bit later.’

  Alex’s father nodded. ‘But you’re sure everything is all right?’

  ‘Yes!’ hissed Alex.

  ‘OK then,’ said his father curtly. ‘It’s just that you seem a bit –’

  ‘I’m fine,’ he said. ‘I’m completely fine.’

  His father nodded and took a sip of coffee.

  ‘Well then,’ he said. ‘I’d better get going. Stay and finish your breakfast.’

  Alex’s father got up, dropping his napkin on to the table, and left Alex in the café.

  Alex sat staring into the distance. Today he had to tell
Angelien what he had seen. He had to find some way of making her listen without thinking he was crazy or, worse, some kind of childish fantasist.

  The important thing, he decided, was not to just blurt it all out. That really would sound crazy. He needed to take his time and tell her calmly and sensibly.

  Angelien texted ten minutes later to say she was in the hotel lobby, and Alex grabbed his jacket and bag and went out to meet her.

  ‘I thought we might go to the Van Gogh museum today,’ said Angelien as they left the hotel. ‘What do you think? Do you like Van Gogh?’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Alex. ‘I mean I haven’t seen that much. I’m not sure I’ve seen any real ones.’

  ‘OK then,’ said Angelien. ‘Then we should definitely go. It’s my favourite museum in Amsterdam. Let’s have a coffee first though, huh? Have you had breakfast?’

  Angelien took him to a café where she ordered coffee and croissants. ‘I used to come to this café when I was a kid, with my dad,’ said Angelien. ‘It still looks exactly the same.’

  Alex watched through the window as a cat curled up on the bonnet of a car on the opposite side of the road. He suddenly felt very tired.

  ‘It will all work out fine,’ said Angelien with a smile. ‘Believe me.’

  Alex smiled. He wanted to believe her.

  Several times as they walked along after leaving the café, Alex was about to tell Angelien about looking through the mask, but each time he found that the words would not come. It was going to sound stupid, however he started. He wasn’t going to get very far before she laughed in his face.

  He was sure that she would think he was dreaming or even making it up. Whichever, he was sure that she would think he was being childish and he didn’t want that. He really did not want that.

  Besides, he was less and less sure of what he had seen as the morning drew on. Was it impossible that he had dreamt the whole thing? It seemed more comforting to think that he had.

  ‘I read some more of Graaf’s journal last night,’ said Angelien.

  ‘Yeah?’ said Alex.

  ‘It seems like she used to sit in the window of the house, day after day, looking out at the street. Kids in the neighbourhood would run past when they got to that stretch of the canal or avoid that street entirely. They would dare each other to look at her masked face.’