by J. M. Hewitt
But the inspectuer deems him not worthy of a reply and the officers begin to filter out of his apartment. Lev is incensed and he jumps up, grabs Fons by the arm.
“You can’t just leave my door like that, you can’t just break in here with no good reason and then just go on your way!”
Inspectuer Fons shakes Lev’s hand off his arm and fixes him with a steely glare. “A young woman is dead, Mr Abramov, a woman who kept company with you last night. That gives us jurisdiction to do whatever we need to do.”
Lev lets his hand fall to his side and he slumps back onto the sofa.
“Don’t leave town just yet, will you sir?” Inspectuer Fons narrows his eyes at Lev, glances around the room and then exits the apartment, leaving the door sagging sadly on its one remaining hinge.
Lev does his best to jam the door closed and retreats into the kitchenette where he selects a beer and cracks it open, wishing as he drinks that he had something stronger.
He does remember her name, it was Cilla, but he’d forgotten it until just now. He moves to the window and opens it, sees the Inspectuer still on the balcony walkway, talking into a mobile phone, another officer at his side. Without stopping to wonder whether it is wise drawing further attention to himself, he calls out to him.
“Who sent you here? I only moved in a couple of days ago, how did you know where to locate my home?”
The young officer mutters something unintelligible and Lev notices that the Inspectuer jabs the officer in the ribs. The young man clamps his mouth shut, his face red, and Lev glares at the Inspectuer before slamming his window closed.
Someone has been talking about him. He’s pretty sure it’s not one of the girls; after all, they more than anyone understand the need for discretion.
No, it must be someone else and he’s pretty sure the officer out there said that it was a doctor. But Lev does not know any doctors here, he’s not registered with any surgery or healthcare plan and as far as he is aware there are none that know of him, either.
Feeling very exposed all of a sudden, Lev yanks the blinds closed and retreats in relative darkness to the safety of his couch.
23
ROLAND
20th February 2000
It had been almost a month since I’d seen my old friends. They didn’t come looking for me, and I didn’t rock up at their apartment like I usually would. I wanted to punish them, well, Miles anyway. I couldn’t forget the chicken incident. I couldn’t forget how he made me feel.
Anyway, it didn’t matter, I was too busy working for Mark Braith to spend time talking nonsense with my old Irish friends. I didn’t need them anymore; Mark was my friend now.
He was a very different type of friend though, he never cracked jokes or played silly tricks like they did. I’d never seen him smile or laugh. But when I was with Mark I felt very grown up. I liked the way that everyone respected him, and in turn, when I was with him, they respected me too.
He started giving me more important jobs. After a while I wasn’t simply his ‘runner’, I was promoted. He showed me how to cut the cocaine and mix in other ingredients to make it go further. Mark bought his cocaine already processed, but it was pure. Snorted like that it would kill you, he told me. So of the hefty one pound bags in their original form, we would turn those into a further twenty four pounds of street cocaine. It was very easy, really, not too different to the cake baking that Mother did in her kitchen. Weigh this, sieve that, add talcum powder, baking powder or, for the higher paying customers, crushed up Ritalin. It wasn’t only cocaine; that was his sweetener, the equivalent of Mother’s midday sherry. He got his heroin as Brown Heroin Base, one step before it’s ready to be injected. Soon I was adding the ammonia solution and then hydrochloric acid, packaging it up when it was ready after resting for an evening and delivering it out to the people.
I always checked my measurements over and over, paranoid about scooping the wrong weight of something or other in and inadvertently killing someone, but Mark soon stopped this.
“It’s not necessary,” he said, almost gently while fixing his piercing blue eyes on me. “These people buy knowing the risk, as long as you’re not putting too much of the brown stuff in and depleting me of my profit, it’s okay.”
In response to his pep talk I got quicker, but still I tried to check I was putting the right quantities in.
My pay was haphazard to say the least. He paid me when he remembered, which was usually when he noticed I’d stopped coming by cab or bus and was walking instead, like the sight of me trudging up the road reminded him that I’d likely run out of money.
One morning he paid me handsomely. As soon as I came in the door he was in the hallway, an orange juice in one hand, a brown envelope in the other. I greeted him as usual, with a pathetic half bow that was more just dipping my head to him.
He didn’t reply, just drained his juice and then handed the empty glass to me.
I took it, halfway through shrugging my heavy coat off, and stood stupidly, one arm still in my coat, the other holding his glass.
“Pay day,” he said, his voice even more gravelly than usual.
And then he stepped forward, plucked a big wedge of notes from the envelope and tucked them into the back pocket of my jeans.
His hand stayed there, palm flat in my pocket, and I’m sure I felt a caress. I wanted to squirm, but it was Mark Braith, so I did nothing except stay entirely still. He was very close, I could smell the tang of the oranges and see that his top lip was beaded with sweat. He was taller than me, most men are, and I fixated on the top button of his shirt while he slid his hand in and out of my pocket. Each time his hand moved I was tugged a little closer to him, and a red warning buzzer started up in my head. Where was this going? Where would this end?
Finally he tired of playing with me, and stepping back he strode into the kitchen. I rested the empty glass on the floor while I shrugged off my coat, hung it on the banister, and followed him through.
“Got some deliveries for you today,” he said, not looking at me, but sorting through half a dozen brown packages. “Need you to take these over to your buddies, the Irish lads down on Gevers Deynootweg.”
“Oh, but I can’t,” I exclaimed before I could stop myself.
He turned to me then, brows furrowed as he waited for an explanation.
“I … I don’t see them anymore,” I said, my voice almost a whisper. “They were … they were mean to me.”
I waited as he stacked three packages up and then picked a piece of lint off his shirt. I knew he was waiting for me to speak again, so I took a deep breath.
“It was just Miles, really,” I said. I cleared my throat. “He made me watch the chicken slaughter at work. He knew I didn’t want to.”
And I felt stupid as soon as I heard my words. Maybe everyone was right, I really was an idiot. I shook my head, rubbed at my temples.
“I’m sorry, I’m being silly,” I smiled as widely as I could manage. “What would you like me to take to them?”
Wordlessly he passed me one of the parcels and a carrier bag. He turned back to the kitchen counter, and silently I retrieved my coat and went on my way.
I walked straight in when I reached apartment 1058, the door was open, as always. The feeling was one of familiarity, of coming home, and I almost regretted my emotions of dislike towards Miles that I’d had for almost a month now.
The three brothers were on me, rubbing their fists into my hair, hooking their arms around my neck and dragging me into the kitchen area for a beer. They took the carrier bag and discarded it on the side, and I took pleasure in the fact that they were genuinely pleased to see me, more so even than the bag of drugs.
Vinnie started to talk about what I’d bought and suggested that we crack it open and have an impromptu party. David, always the slightly more sensible of the three, lay a hand on the bag and fixed his deep gaze on his brothers.
“It’s not ours, is it? We need to deliver it on, and not consume it.” He smile
d ruefully in turn at all three of us. “Let’s not forget where it came from, hey lads?”
The atmosphere nosedived and Miles slapped his hand down on top of his brother’s.
“When did we start being employees of that fuck?” he shouted and his temper was so sudden it made me jump. “We came here for a crack, to get good and loaded and party, and now we’re pushing for him!”
Vinnie hushed him, and I caught the glance he shot them. He was shushing them because of me, they thought I was a mole or a grass.
I should have known, I had known, I hadn’t wanted to come here but earlier my words to Mark had sounded silly. But I had been right, everything had changed. The brothers didn’t trust me any longer. I wasn’t on their team anymore.
I made to leave, reversing quietly, but I wasn’t the unnoticed boy lurking in the shadows anymore. They watched me, their eyes accusing and just as I was out of the door one of them – Miles – broke the silence.
I heard the mimicking of a chicken clucking just before I closed the door.
Then the fire came in my belly, followed by a sharp anger.
One day they wouldn’t be laughing at me.
One day they would laugh on the other side of their faces, as my mother would say.
24
ALEX
LOWER RICHMOND ROAD, LONDON
6.7.15 Daytime
At Selina’s home, in his own private work and living quarters, Alex looks through his laptop. Elian had used it a lot before she left and he had thought that she was emailing Sissy. Now, since his return from the flat in central London, he’s pretty sure she was using it for some other purpose. His fears were confirmed when he spoke to Sissy on the telephone immediately upon his return home, and Sissy had said she had not received a single call, email or letter from Elian. In fact, she hadn’t heard from her for over a month, the last time they had spoken was when they had all said their farewells back at Klim’s home in Chernobyl.
And a check of his browser history confirms that Elian has covered her tracks well. There is nothing here that he has not used himself. He knows he can take the laptop to one of his contacts who will be able to unearth recently deleted history, but that will be a last resort. Time is of the essence here.
Idly, Alex wonders if Sissy is now worried that her niece has vanished. Her voice betrayed no emotion, but then again, it rarely did. Alex imagines Sissy leaving the place where she now has no need to be and flying home to the UK. Fleetingly he thinks she might, but with a growing anger knows she won’t.
Dismissing thoughts of Sissy, Alex enters the Bella Vista into Google. As he had suspected, many results came up from Malta to the Algarve and Egypt and beyond. He stares at the screen in despair. Elian could have chosen any of these, or none of them, he doesn’t even know for sure it is a hotel. The landline rings again and Alex snatches it up, still, even after so many days, his heart still bangs in the hope that it will be her voice at the end of the line.
“Alex. It’s Sol.”
Alex breathes out and leans back in his chair. “Sol, how are you?” He doesn’t mind that Sol is calling, of all the people he met in Chernobyl, ex-army man Sol was his favourite.
“I’ve been speaking to Sissy, she said you called looking for Elian, what’s happening over there?”
Alex hesitates, unsure if he should concern Elian’s family and officially declare her missing. Then he remembers Elian’s hurt when Sissy abandoned her and reasons he doesn’t need to protect the feelings of these people. At least Sissy cared enough to mention Alex’s phone call. “She took off, Sol, I’m trying to find her.”
He hears whispering on the other end of the line and it’s clear that the man who might be Elian’s birth father, Klim, is whispering directives to Sol. And then inspiration strikes.
“Sol, I need you to do me a favour. When I track Elian down I need to be able to tell her the truth about her parentage. She needs closure on a lot of things, and if Klim is her dad, I think it will help the healing process for her.”
“You do?” Sol sounds bemused, as if Klim being someone’s father could actually be a good thing.
“Yes,” replies Alex with more patience than he feels. “That bastard Niko, you know what he done to Elian. That’s bad enough, but imagine if he is her father, it makes it worse, Sol, so much worse.”
“Yeah, I understand.” Sol’s tone is now serious. “What can I do?”
“I need you to FedEx me something of Klim’s, hair would be good. I can arrange a DNA test here and we can end this once and for all. If you think Klim will agree I don’t care if you tell him, if he won’t do it, then get some anyway.”
Sol agrees and with promises to call when he has made the arrangement, he hangs up.
Alex sighs and stretches. It’s been a long while since he has done so much work for one person, and never before has he done it without charge. He’s a little proud of himself, and again, for what feels like the hundredth time, he wonders what on earth Elian Gould has done to him to make him into this kind of person.
Alex picks up the phone again and dials a number he knows off the top of his head. Eventually it is answered by a harried sounding man.
“Luke, its Alex.”
The tone changes immediately. “Al! Where have you been? I’ve not seen you since forever, and you still owe me a drink for my help in that Chernobyl stuff. How fucked up was that?”
Alex grits his teeth, knowing as he is about to ask for help again from his pal in the police force, he lets Luke talk on.
“I’m going to be honest with you, Luke,” Alex says when Luke pauses for breath. “I’m asking for a favour again.”
“Okay, but you really, really owe me, Al,” laughs Luke. “What do you need?”
“Your airport and border control contacts. I need to find someone and I think they went abroad.”
“Name? And do you have a passport number by any chance?”
“It’s Elian Gould,” replies Alex. “And I can get a passport number, I’m pretty sure I made a note of it.” Alex clicks into his email to locate the plane booking they used to go to the Ukraine.
“Elian Go–” Luke cuts off for a second, then he’s back, louder than ever. “That’s the chick that went missing in Chernobyl. Fuck, Alex, what’s going on there?”
It’s the second time he’s been asked that in less than ten minutes. Alex sighs, making a mental note to get some different contacts.
“It’s her,” he confirms. “And it’s a long story. I promise, sincerely, that one day very soon you and I will sit down over a lot of drinks and I’ll tell you everything. But for now, can you help me?”
Luke tuts, “You know I will, brother. Passport number?”
Alex, having found the old ticket confirmation, reads it off.
“I’ll buzz you back, man,” Luke says. “Give me ten minutes.” With that he hangs up the phone.
Alex closes down his computer and rubs at his eyes. He is tired, exhausted in fact. And suddenly, despite being with Noah and talking to his other friends on the phone, he is very lonely.
He taps his fingers on the telephone and whispers under his breath. “Come on, Luke. Help me out now, buddy.”
It’s actually four hours later when the telephone next rings and Alex is keeping Selina company in the lounge, half dozing as she watches one of her shows. He snatches up the landline.
“Al, man, it’s Luke.”
“Luke, what have you got?” Alex can see Selina out of the corner of his eye, sitting up and lowering the volume on the television.
“She was logged at Stansted Airport on 21st June. She bought a ticket and flew to Schipnol Airport in Amsterdam. I took a liberty and checked on the card she used to buy the plane ticket, please, Alex, I don’t have to tell you, but keep that to yourself. That card hasn’t been used since.”
Alex breathes out. Amsterdam. Elian is – or was – in Holland. Suddenly he needs to get back to the computer, see if there is a Bella Vista in Holland. This new infor
mation has revived him and Alex is awake and alert now.
“Luke, I owe you. You’ve done well,” he says.
He hangs up, feeling only slightly guilty as he hears Luke still talking. Selina opens her mouth but Alex stands up. “I need to check something, Aunty. I’ll tell you what’s going on as soon as I know.”
Alex takes the steps two at a time as he runs up to the room where his laptop is. The chase is back on, and Alex is a step closer to finding Elian.
25
THE DOCTOR
HOLLAND SPOOR
6.7.15 Morning
Bram reads through the medical reports on the ten women. He places his finger on the page and moves it along as he reads, careful to take in everything, not to miss a single word. Because of the way the girl’s three monthly checks are scheduled, his reports usually come in batches of ten. After he finishes with each one, he puts it in a neat pile to his left. Upon completion he is left with just one report. He closes it softly and leans back in his chair to reflect on his findings.
Nine girls, all healthy with more than satisfactory scores, but one girl, not quite as satisfactory. Bram rubs at his eyes, he’s tired all of a sudden and now, with this latest batch of reports, there is even more work to do. He thinks back over the years, how much care he has taken and can’t believe that after decades in this work, the streets are still unclean. It’s not good enough and because he is in charge, it means he’s not good enough.
Moving slowly, his legs still aching from his long walk the day before, he walks over to the locked medicine cabinet and peers in through the toughened glass. He doesn’t even have the required dosage of antibiotics that would fix her, which means he’ll have to place an additional order.
