Through Dead Eyes

by Chris Priestley

They moved into a huddle below the window. They had their heads bowed, as though deep in thought, but they seemed to know that Hanna was at the window because they all, as one, raised their pale-blue faces and stared up.

  Then, one by one, the ghostly children raised their thin blue-white arms and beckoned, their skinny fingers curling and uncurling as though they were trying to coax a bird from a tree.

  They were beckoning to Hanna. They were willing her to come and play with them; to free herself from her father’s captivity and run in the streets with them.

  Death was the price to be paid for this freedom and Alex could already feel the part of him that was Hanna agreeing that this price was worth paying. She would join them soon enough.

  Hanna turned and walked across to the connecting door to her fathers’ room. Alex felt his own arm reach out but it was Hanna’s hand that appeared in his field of sight, edging towards the latch of the door to the adjoining room. It was not the white-painted door of his hotel room, but the dull, dark one of Hanna’s world.

  He felt his hand – her hand – close around the latch. He felt the smooth chill of its touch on the palm. He heard the faintest click of the latch and the whisper of the door brushing slowly open.

  Through the widening crack he saw that the room was not the room his father slept in. There was instead a much darker, gloomier chamber, sparsely furnished and dominated by a tall four-poster bed, hung all about with heavy curtains.

  Van Kampen was in that bed, behind those curtains. He could hear his sleeping breaths, rasping rhythmically like the clock in his room.

  His terror of Van Kampen waking was almost unbearable. Alex desperately wanted to go back to his room and to his own time, but Hanna’s will was stronger.

  Their tread was soundless and the girl’s bare feet walked ever so gently across the wooden floor. She had a lightness he could never have achieved.

  Alex could sense her wariness and his own fear returned as he realised she was worried that her father might wake up. She walked past the end of the bed and towards a table near the window on which stood a glass and a wine decanter and a smaller, dark-green bottle.

  Alex knew that she would reach for that small bottle. He knew too that she would remove the stopper from the wine decanter. He felt the glass stopper and the weight of it as she pulled it out and set it noiselessly down on the table top.

  The small green bottle contained a fine white powder and he watched as the girl’s hand carefully lifted it, tipping some of the contents into the wine with practised precision. She had done this before and more than once.

  She looked at the powder dissolving in the wine for a moment and then carefully put the bottles back exactly as she had found them. Alex wondered if it was poison but knew Van Kampen would hardly leave poison sitting next to his wine. More likely it was some kind of medicine. Whatever it was, he knew that Hanna meant him harm.

  Why should he care? He hated his father. No. It was Hanna who hated her father. Her mind was melting into his. He struggled to keep track of his own thoughts.

  Van Kampen moved in his sleep but did not wake. But it was a sign to get moving. As noiselessly as they had entered the room, they now left, closing the door silently behind them. Hanna’s power over him seemed momentarily weakened by her fear that her father would wake and Alex reached up and took the mask off.

  He threw it on the bed and adjusted his eyes to the light. Even though it was a gloomy afternoon, it seemed dazzlingly bright after the darkness of Hanna’s world.

  Alex looked round to face the connecting doors. He could hear his father still tapping at his laptop. A few minutes later he opened the door and asked Alex what he wanted to eat.

  They ordered food and ate it in Alex’s father’s room in near silence. His father said that Alex could watch a movie if he wanted to but that he was going to get some work done and then turn in.

  Hanna had been trying to kill her father, Alex was sure of it. Maybe she succeeded. Alex couldn’t imagine that he could ever be angry enough with his father that he would want him dead, let alone be the cause of his death. But then his father had not beaten him the way Van Kampen had beaten Hanna.

  Alex felt complicit somehow. Even though he hadn’t willed it, he still felt as though his hand had poured that powder into Van Kampen’s glass. Could he have resisted? Could he have stopped Hanna?

  Chapter 17

  When Alex woke, he was standing at the window wearing the mask. For a moment he thought he was dreaming, but only for a moment.

  He tried to put his hands to his face to remove the mask, but they would not obey him. He was back in Hanna’s world and it was she who was in control here.

  The canal outside was once more as it was in the painting. Hanna looked straight ahead into the darkness and again Alex could see her eyes twinkle in the curved eyeholes in the reflected mask. He felt her face form a hidden smile that mirrored the frozen smile of the mask and Alex felt his face compelled to do the same.

  Hanna’s scarred hand reached up to the window latch and opened it. The chill night air rushed in.

  Alex knew what she was doing and yet was powerless to stop himself mirroring her actions as she stepped up on to the windowsill and leaned out to look at the ghost children way below.

  Hanna teetered there on the sill, between standing and falling, between life and death. The moment seemed to go on for ever. Alex tried to resist. If he jumped with Hanna, was he jumping in his own time? If he died here, would he join Hanna and those ghostly children? He summoned up every last ounce of his dwindling will and yelled.

  ‘No!’

  As the sound of his voice died away, Alex felt his will fade along with it. He looked down with Hanna at the spectral faces below.

  ‘Alex!’

  Alex’s grip on the window frame loosened. He was already falling when his father grabbed his arm and pulled him inside, falling as he did so and dragging his son on top of him. They lay together on the floor, Alex’s father holding him tightly.

  His father got up and went to the window and closed it. He pulled the mask from Alex’s face, tossed it to the ground and stamped on it, splitting it into pieces.

  Alex’s father looked at Alex with an expression of bewilderment.

  ‘Alex,’ he said breathlessly. ‘What . . . Why were you . . .’

  ‘I’m sorry, Dad,’ said Alex, sobbing. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘You looked like you were going to . . .’ began his father.

  Alex’s father hugged him and they sat together on the bed. Alex looked down at the broken mask and knew that the spell that went with it was broken too. He did not know whether Hanna was now free of this place or whether Alex was simply free of her influence, but something had changed, he could feel it.

  ‘Alex,’ said his father. ‘Why? I don’t understand . . . Is this about Molly Ryman?’

  Alex shook his head.

  ‘About your mum and me?’

  ‘I can’t explain it, Dad,’ said Alex.

  ‘Try.’

  ‘You wouldn’t believe me,’ said Alex. ‘I wanted to tell you about the mask before . . .’

  His father shook his head and groaned.

  ‘Please tell me this isn’t about that damned mask?’ said his father. ‘For God’s sake, Alex. You were about to . . .’

  Alex struggled to concentrate. Noises seemed to rush forward like angry bees, buzzing around his head before disappearing in a background hum. His head hurt and he sat on his bed while his father fetched him a glass of water.

  ‘Talk to me,’ said his father. ‘Please.’

  ‘You won’t believe me,’ said Alex.

  ‘Alex,’ said his father with a sigh. ‘Just tell me.’

  So Alex told him some of what had happened over the last few days. He told him about the mask and about the painting. He told him about Angelien’s research into the house and the painter’s journal. He told him about seeing Hanna’s reflection when they first arrived and how he had felt haunted by a p
resence in the room the whole time they had been there.

  Alex’s father listened attentively and without once interrupting. At first Alex was pleased that he was being allowed to get his words out, but the more it went on, the more self-conscious he became and the less sure of what his father was thinking.

  When he had reached the end of his story, his father lowered his head, closed his eyes and rubbed them with his finger and thumb, as he always did when he was searching for the right words. When he raised his head, Alex was shocked to see tears in his eyes.

  ‘Dad?’ said Alex.

  ‘Alex,’ said his father. ‘I’m so sorry. This is all my fault. I haven’t appreciated how stressed you have been by everything that has gone on,’ continued his father. ‘Your mother leaving was a big blow, I know that.’

  ‘What’s that got to do with this?’ said Alex, frowning.

  ‘Look, Alex,’ said his father reaching out and putting a hand on his knee. ‘You’re a very intelligent boy. But you’re also a . . . sensitive boy.’

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

  ‘Alex,’ said his father gently. ‘The business at school? You aren’t coping very well, are you? The business with the Ryman girl and now . . .’

  ‘This has got nothing to do with what happened at school!’ said Alex.

  ‘Do you remember the nightmares you had when Mum left?’

  Alex took a deep breath before answering.

  ‘This wasn’t like that,’ said Alex.

  ‘Wasn’t it?’ said his father.

  ‘You haven’t listened to anything I’ve said. You never listen.’

  Alex’s father put his hands to his face and rubbed his eyebrows.

  ‘Alex,’ he said quietly. ‘I have listened to you. That’s why I’m concerned. That’s why –’

  ‘I shouldn’t have told you,’ said Alex.

  ‘Of course you should,’ said his father. ‘Please try and –’

  ‘I’m tired, Dad,’ said Alex. ‘I’m going to get to sleep.’

  Alex’s father looked at the floor for a while.

  ‘OK,’ he said. ‘I’ll see you in the morning. You’re sure you’ll be all right? You can come in here with me.’

  Alex smiled weakly.

  ‘I’ll be fine. Honest.’

  ‘OK,’ said his father. ‘But any problem, Alex, and just come through to me.’

  His father looked at the window.

  ‘I’m very annoyed with Angelien for encouraging all this . . .’

  Alex could see that he was going to say ‘nonsense’.

  ‘It’s nothing to do with Angelien,’ said Alex. ‘She thinks I’m crazy too, if you must know.’

  ‘So you’ve told her about this?’ said his father.

  ‘Not much,’ said Alex. ‘Only a bit.’

  Alex’s father covered his face with his hands again.

  ‘What are we going to do with you, Alex? Angelien must have told Saskia. I thought she was being strange with me –’

  ‘Saskia is cheesed off with you because you don’t listen to her either,’ said Alex angrily. ‘And you made fun of that book of hers.’

  ‘What book?’ said his father. ‘What are you talking about, Alex?’

  ‘Never mind,’ said Alex. ‘What’s the point?’ Alex’s father closed his eyes and let out a long slow breath. Eventually he reached out and laid his hand gently on Alex’s shoulder.

  ‘I’m OK, Dad,’ said Alex, knowing what was on his mind. His father nodded.

  ‘Get some sleep,’ he said. ‘Everything always seems much clearer in the morning.’

  After a few moments Alex nodded.

  ‘Yeah,’ he said, without much conviction.

  Chapter 18

  There was a calmness now that Alex realised contrasted sharply with the pent-up atmosphere which had existed for the whole of his stay in that room. It was as if a storm had broken and cleared the air.

  He was sure that somehow Hanna – or the ghost of Hanna – had been freed by the destruction of the mask. She had left the room – left the hotel, Alex was sure of that. Trapped in life and in death, she was finally liberated.

  Alex too felt freed. His senses seemed keener, where before all but his sense of fear had been muffled. He felt older too, as though he had aged years in a single day.

  The broken mask lay in the waste-paper bin of his hotel room and no longer held him in thrall. Its hold over him was as broken as the mask itself.

  ‘The place has been freezing the whole stay,’ said his father, tapping the air conditioning. ‘Now it’s boiling all of a sudden.’

  Alex picked up his bag. They were all gone now, he thought: Hanna, Van Kampen, the plague children too. Their spirits had moved on to who knew where.

  Down in the lobby his father handed their keys back and asked about the bill.

  ‘No, no,’ said the manager with a smile. ‘Everything has been taken care of. I hope you have enjoyed your stay.’

  ‘We’ve been very comfortable, thank you,’ said Alex’s father.

  The manager looked across to Alex and smiled.

  ‘I have something for you,’ he said. ‘Your young lady friend left this for you.’

  Alex walked across to the counter and the manager gave him an envelope, ignoring the cold stare of his father.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said.

  ‘Would you like me to call you a taxi, sir?’ said the manager.

  ‘That won’t be necessary, thank you,’ said Alex’s father. He said that they would catch the train to Schiphol and also said that they would walk to the station.

  It was as if he didn’t want to spend another second longer in the hotel than necessary, even to wait for a cab.

  Alex didn’t care how they got home, he just wanted to get there with as little fuss as possible.

  Even school seemed attractive now – despite all the trouble and the dark looks and sniggers; its familiarity was appealing and he felt that it now held little fear for him.

  Picking up their bags, they walked to the door and out into the street. Alex looked back at the window of his room, just as he had done when they had first arrived. The sun was shining now and the windowpane borrowed the blue of the sky. Alex had no impression of a hidden presence behind that reflection.

  Alex had half expected to see Angelien, but the street was empty save for the bicycle traffic crossing the nearby bridge. He would never see Angelien again, he knew that.

  He thought he heard a voice call his name and turned to the sound. There was nothing there: nothing but a movement in the waters of the canal – shoals of light flickering and shimmering on the surface.

  Alex followed his father along the street and over the bridge, heading for Damrak, the long boulevard that led to the central station.

  Damrak was heaving with people, moving back and forth along the wide pavements while trams zipped along the street. Every single person on the long street seemed to be a tourist, either walking to the centre from the station or walking, like them, to catch a train out of the city.

  The central station was a big, grand building with frescos on the outside and domes on the roof. They walked past the rows of tram stops towards the entrance.

  They bought tickets from a machine, Alex’s father searching his pockets for the right coins. Alex stood impassively nearby as a couple embraced passionately before separating with tearful goodbyes.

  They travelled upstairs in the train, sitting opposite an elderly couple who clutched their bags to their breasts as though they suspected Alex was going to snatch them at any moment. Alex put on his iPod and looked out of the window.

  The train was taking them back alongside the motorway they had driven along with Saskia and Angelien on their journey into the city, and that brought back images of Angelien. A flickering slide show flashed by of the time he had spent with her. These images were like barbs that pulled painfully on his mind. He now saw his relationship with Angelien as his father must have seen it; as S
askia must have seen it; as Angelien must have seen it. His mind flinched at each new thought.

  How could he have ever thought that someone like Angelien would be interested in a boy like him? What a joke. What a big fat joke.

  At the airport, they bought some sandwiches and sat on stools in view of the departures board. Their flight was yet to be assigned a gate number and a flashing sign told them to wait.

  Alex took out his phone. There was a message from his mother. That’s OK, Alex. Whenever you’re ready.

  ‘Come on,’ said his father, picking up his bag. ‘That’s our gate.’

  Alex followed after him and they retraced their steps from the beginning of their journey to board their plane.

  Alex stowed his bag, took a seat next to the window and put his book in the string pocket at the back of the seat in front. He doubted if he would be able to concentrate enough to read it. His father was already reading his book, ignoring Alex and the cabin crew, who were beginning their safety drill.

  Minutes later they were airborne and heading out over the sea. The day was another dark and dismal one and the sea looked almost black below. Within moments they were surrounded by grey cloud.

  Alex glanced round at his father, who he could see was utterly engrossed in his book. He had folded Angelien’s letter up and put it in his jacket pocket. He had been waiting for a chance to read it, and could not wait any longer. He took it out now as unobtrusively as possible and unfolded it.

  Dear Alex

  I am so sorry that things have worked out the way they have. I wanted to come and say goodbye but I promised my mother I would stay away. You probably would not have wanted to see me anyway, huh?

  I wanted to share with you the last piece of the puzzle about Hanna. I know that you will want to know – however angry you are with me.

  I’ve read the last part of Graaf’s journal and we’ve been wrong the whole time. Hanna was not driven mad by wearing that mask – although I’m sure it did not help.

  The painter couldn’t stop thinking about Hanna and her story. Even after she died he still was obsessed with her. He took the mask home with him and hung it in his studio while he painted the picture we saw in the Rijksmuseum. He went to Van Kampen’s home in Utrecht and talked to people who knew them there – to the servants who used to work in the house before his wife ran away.