by J. M. Hewitt
When he woke up today the sun was shining fiercely, and with the memory of the coppers and their raid receding a little, he dragged a plastic kitchen chair out of the front door and sat on the balcony. Now, with his face tilted towards the sun he begins to feel a bit better, more like his old self.
“Good afternoon!”
Lev sits upright at the cheery greeting, cursing for falling asleep and looks around in the direction of where the voice came from. He relaxes as he spots Roland lumbering towards him.
“Hey, Roland, what’re you up to?” Lev asks, settling back into his chair.
Roland shrugs and leans against the railing, looking out over the road and smiling at nothing.
Lev cringes, not knowing how to proceed with this man who seems totally lacking in social skills. Then, he hears another voice; this one is high pitched and makes Lev want to rub at his ears. The voice drifts up the stairs, followed moments later by his annoying neighbour, Joy.
“Oh well, party time, is it?”
She’s wearing a red dress with white polka dots, shoes with far too much of a heel for daytime and scarlet red lipstick. Lev rolls his eyes and contemplates picking up his chair, taking it inside and leaving her and Roland out on the balcony.
“Good afternoon, Joy.” Roland is positively beaming at her arrival and Lev heaves out a sigh.
“Too much sun for me,” he says. “Think I’d better move in there for some shade.”
“Good idea, it’s baking out here,” says Joy and to Lev’s dismay she saunters past him into the cool of his apartment, with Roland right behind her.
“Oh, it is a party!”
As Lev picks up the chair and his cigarette packet he hears her crowing from inside and hurries inside to find her, hands on knees, inspecting the previous two days drugs paraphernalia on his coffee table. He can’t believe he wasn’t more careful, especially with the policemen who paid him a visit only three days ago. He makes to sweep them off the table and stash them safely, but Joy puts her hand on his arm.
He looks down at her hand clamped around his wrist, her red talons digging into his bare arm and he stiffens. She must feel it, the change in his energy, but instead of removing her hand she looks up at him, a wicked smile on her painted lips. It might be the residual substances still in him, or just the fact that he simply can’t stand her, but through gritted teeth, eventually he speaks.
“Get your fucking hands off me.”
But Joy wants to play, a reaction is what she wanted and she smiles back, showing small, even, white teeth. He sees where the red lipstick has bled into the lines around her mouth, and as if sensing him staring at them, her smile changes to a snarl. With her left hand she reaches across him and closes her hand around the white powder, nestled in the tinfoil pouch on the tabletop. Lev yanks his hand away and closes it around her wrist, squeezing tight until she yelps.
“Let go, you crazy bastard!” she shrieks.
Her voice, naturally loud, has even more volume in her anger and with his free hand he clamps it over her face, pinching his own lips together with distaste as he feels her wet mouth under his hand. “Shut up, you’re the crazy one, fucking crazy bitch, poking your nose in uninvited, hanging around, desperate for– fuck, what the FUCK!”
He’s not sure what happened, but hard pieces of something have hit him in the face, there’s a rainstorm of crystal falling around his head. He hears a repeated punching noise and sees something moving rapidly in the direction of Joy. He lets go of her, grabs his shirt and pulls it up to swipe at his face, wincing as he feels tiny pieces of what feels like glass cutting his cheeks from where it’s falling out of his hair.
He looks around, assesses the situation and knows that the drugs have dulled him, as it takes too many moments for him to understand what has happened. He looks down, sees shards glinting in the sunlight. He looks to the other side of the table and Joy is on the floor. She’s bleeding, badly, her hand clamped to her neck, looking wildly around. Her legs are pedalling wildly but she’s going nowhere. Her mouth is opening and closing like a fish out of water, but nothing comes out except an odd gurgling noise.
Lev swivels his head to his right and it becomes clear exactly what has happened as he looks at his other forgotten and also uninvited visitor.
Roland is standing by the door, his hands held aloft and the strange man-child is physically quaking. His hands too, are a bloodied mess.
“She was shouting, you were both shouting.” Roland looks on the verge of tears as he absentmindedly wipes his palms on his jeans.
Lev clears the coffee table in a single bound and drops to his knees beside Joy. She is no longer trying to speak and her eyes are empty. Lifeless. Something is poking out of the side of her neck and Lev leans closer. It looks like a fragment of glass.
“What is that?”
“The … t-t-the flower … thing,” replies Roland as he rubs at his face, leaving red streaks across his cheek.
It was a vase. Vaguely Lev remembers it, a heavy-set thick crystal thing. It had looked expensive, but as Lev had no intentions on buying flowers that was the extent of attention he had paid to it. Lev balls his hands and wants nothing more than to tip over onto his side and go to sleep. He thinks about fleeing; just leaving Joy inert on the floor and Roland standing in the hallway and just going, leaving Scheveningen, Holland, maybe even Europe altogether.
But he’s been flagged up already by the local police. He’ll not make it across any borders before this latest mess comes to light.
“Fuck, fuck, FUCK!” he slams his fists onto his thighs and while he’s still cursing he registers a wail from across the room.
He launches up and over to Roland, grabs the big man by his shoulders and shakes him, which only serves to make Roland cry harder. Lev pulls back his hand, slaps him once, twice. The third time he clenches his fist and as Roland’s head is knocked sideways finally he quietens.
With Roland temporarily silent and Joy still very much dead, Lev sinks into his chair and holds his head in his hands.
36
ROLAND
11th March 2000
Smith stayed around for a while. Mark toyed with the hydraulic acid, experimenting with different dosages, adding this, reducing that.
Eventually Smith was moving around the apartment. He was like a zombie; he would walk to wherever Mark told him to, sit, stand, drink. He didn't eat and he didn't seem to sleep. He never went to the toilet by himself and he never requested anything. Not verbally, anyway.
I hated Smith.
Once, a few years ago when Mother had gone to visit her sister in Rotterdam for the weekend, I'd watched One Flew over the Cuckoo’s Nest. Smith reminded me of that terrible scene, where Jack Nicholson has had the lobotomy and all the life has gone out of him and he’s just lying on the trolley, as good as dead but still horribly alive.
Smith spent his days on the couch, staring at the wall while Mark played with him. Mark never cared what I saw, it was as though I wasn't there, or rather, that I didn't count as a witness. Mark would ignore me while he unzipped Smith’s trousers and slid his hand inside. I would sit uncomfortably in the darkest corner, trying to block out the groans of pleasure from Mark and the long, laboured breaths of Smith.
For the first time, I thought that living with mother might not have been so bad after all. I wondered if I could escape and go home and while the three of us sat in the dim light of the lounge, I tried to formulate a plan to leave.
And then, everything changed again.
It was a Sunday afternoon and Mark had gone out. He didn't tell me where he was going, and I didn't ask. His parting words to me as he left were; ‘look after him.’
I sat with Smith for a while and it was like watching car-crash television. It was an awful, terrible sight, but I couldn't drag my eyes away. Then Smith spoke for the first time.
It wasn't words, he couldn't form words, but suddenly a stream of noise poured from his gorgeous lips. I stared at him, horrified as two fat
tears sprung to the corners of his eyes and worked their way down his fine cheekbones. His hands, folded neatly in his lap, began to dance and twitch towards me.
I fled to the kitchen, put the kettle on to drown out the noise of his nonsense talk and closed the kitchen door. I sipped at a tea, camomile, the sort that mother drank when she needed to calm her nerves. I began to think again about my mother’s home. I considered the consequences of leaving this place, I wondered what Mark would do. I knew all of his secrets, and though I'd never tell anyone anything about Mark or his business I wasn't sure if he would believe that.
A scream outside shattered my train of thought. The shriek was so loud it made me jump and my teacup scraped across the saucer, slopping the hot liquid over the side and onto my hand.
Grabbing a tea towel, I peered out of the window as I wiped my fingers dry. Then I froze. Two women stood across the street. They clutched at each other and their motions were almost comical. One would shriek, then the other one. In turn they repeated this over and over; shriek, clutch, clap hands over mouth, shriek, clutch …
I looked to where they were staring and an ice river ran through my body. I put my hands on the window pane and let out a strangled cry.
It was Smith. He was naked, which I'm sure these young women would normally find a pleasing sight, but today there was nothing pleasing about Smith.
He was walking down the road with slow, jerky movements. People shouted in horror as he reached out his arms to them and they jumped out of his way.
‘Look after him.’ Mark’s last words reverberated in my mind over and over, and all I could think about was the trouble I'd be in if Smith escaped, or worse, if people realised what had been done to him and Mark got in trouble for it.
I ran down the stairs and burst out into the street. Smith hadn't got very far and I hurried towards him, my eyes flicking left and right, anywhere that I didn't have to look at his naked body, and the telltale trail of blood that tracked its way from his behind down the back of his finely muscled thighs.
When I reached him I didn't know what to do. I didn't want to touch him. But he stopped, almost as though he sensed I was there and he sat down on the edge of the road.
People hurried past, done a double take, stopped, looked, and then, when they felt the horror that was no doubt emanating off the both of us, they moved on, quickening their pace.
“Smith, you have to come back with me,” I whispered urgently.
His head jerked at my words and he opened his lovely, lopsided mouth. “Ugh,” he said.
I was close to tears myself. I wrung my hands as I talked quietly but urgently to Smith. Pleading, imploring …
Then, just as I thought it couldn’t get any worse, I heard the telltale siren announcing that the police had arrived.
37
NAOMI WILSON and THE DOCTOR
HOLLAND SPOOR
9.7.15 Early evening
Naomi parks her car up in the designated parking areas three streets away from the surgery. She has official business there of course, and nobody would question her, but knowing herself that it’s not strictly business on her part is enough to make her conceal her tracks as much as possible. She waits until she’s sure he’s got no other patients that evening, and as the sun starts to dip and a chill creeps in, she rings the doorbell.
She hears him on the other side and she straightens herself and plasters a smile on her face as he opens the door.
“Miss Wilson,” he says, emphasising the ‘miss’. “I wasn’t expecting you.”
He’s not her favourite person, not even close, but Bram is the only doctor that she knows who doesn’t put everything through the books. And as he steps back and gestures for her to come in, she swallows back her dislike for him and mentally prepares herself.
He takes his time closing the door and she takes the opportunity to watch him. He looks to be in pretty good nick for a man who must be in his sixties, but he’s still slow moving. She looks around the hallway, noting the cleanliness, knowing his lives on his own, wondering if he hires a cleaner to keep it so immaculate.
“Are you restocking?” he asks as he shows her into his office. “Because you’re going to have to go through the proper channels, I’m very low myself.”
Once, just once when she had chosen to spend an extra day at home with Erik she had come to Bram for medication instead of going through the main GG&GD dispensary, and since then he’d never let her forget it. But this time, her visit to him isn’t work related, not the way he expects anyway.
“No, not this time, Bram,” she says in reply deliberately using his forename to dilute down his medical status. “This time I’m here as a friend, or a patient, if you will. A friend in need, let’s say.”
It sickens her to have to be nice to him and the glint in his eye suggests he knows he has the upper hand.
“A patient,” he replies, leaning back in his chair and holding his fingertips together underneath his chin. “And a friend. Tell me more.”
Don’t let him see your nerves. Don’t get upset, she tells herself silently. Stay bloody strong. You’re better than this man, in spite of what you need from him.
“I had an incident, at work this month,” she swallows and suddenly her mouth seems awfully dry. “The usual thing, I was tending to a lady, there was … an incident. I’m pretty sure I cleaned myself up okay but she’s an addict and as there was blood … well, I need to be sure I’m not infected.”
She wants to cheer; it sounded plausible to her own ears. But when she looks up at him he’s half smiling. No, actually, he’s almost sneering, and her heart sinks. He knows she’s lied about what actually happened. Damn it.
But he doesn’t say anything like that; he doesn’t tell her that he knows it was a lie. Instead, he simply nods. “I have some time now, we can get it out of the way?”
Maybe she misjudged him, she wonders as tears spring to her eyes. Maybe after working alongside junkies and wife-beaters and screw-ups for so long she’s become disillusioned with everyone. Or maybe it was her own stupid mistake that has made her see she’s no better than the people she deals with on a daily basis. Suddenly, she can’t wait to get back to Erik. Dear, uncomplicated, hard-working Erik, and as Doctor Bastiaan unwraps his needles and sets about getting it all ready, she stops him.
“Thank you,” she murmurs.
He nods in reply and as she rolls her sleeve up she changes the subject.
“What’s with the deaths I’ve been hearing about? Three girls now, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it’s a rather nasty affair,” replies Bram as he locates a vein.
“The last thing we need in the resort at the height of summer too. News like this spreads, before you know it Amsterdam and everywhere will be suffering. They rely on that particular trade and the girls must be so scared.”
Bram pauses and looks down at her. “Maybe it will help the resort, weed out the bad and the good will come. It’s economics, really.”
She blanches at his harsh words and wonders if he cares at all for his patients. But before she can think of a retort he’s speaking again.
“I had your young man here about it the other day.”
She blinks in surprise. “Erik?”
“How many other young men do you have?” His words are tinged with a smile but she cringes inwardly.
“Is he heading the investigation?” she asks, and then. “I’ve not been home yet, that’s my next stop.”
Bram wipes her arm and puts a small round plaster over the area from which he has drawn the blood. He hands her a pot and points towards the toilet.
She’s sitting in the loo when she hears him speaking.
“It looks like he’s in charge of this one. Let’s hope they catch the killer soon, or it won’t look good on your Erik now, will it?”
Sitting on the cold seat in the toilet she stares into the mirror in front of her. Erik has risen through the ranks at the station but, like her, he’s determined and focussed and h
e’s heading straight for the top. This case could make him, but it could also break him.
She closes her eyes and heaves a sigh. At least when she gets home he’ll be distracted through his work. And knowing that fact now, she knows she won’t be confessing anything to him about her own misdeeds. If these tests are all okay, she can just forget that anything ever happened and Erik will never need to know.
38
ERIK FONS & ALEX HARVEY
WALDOPSTRAAT
9.7.15 Afternoon
They’ve been at the murder scene for hours and Alex has somehow found himself no longer the nuisance interloper, but more of an assistant.
When they had got out of the car Erik was off and running, leaving Alex no choice but to follow him down the narrow alleyway that stank of urine and which was littered with old food wrappers and discarded bottles. A police guard stood at the open doorway, arms crossed over his burley chest, and he had nodded a greeting to the Inspectuer.
“Has anyone else been in?” Erik asked.
“No sir, not since the reporting officer.”
“Who found her and who was the attending officer?” Erik asked as he snapped on two pairs of gloves and handed some to Alex.
Alex wondered if it was deliberate or if Erik was just distracted. Whatever it was, he wasn’t going to argue or draw attention to the fact that he shouldn’t be there, so he put on the gloves and stayed quiet.
“I was attending, sir,” interrupted a female officer as she stepped forward. “Sergeant Coby Klerk.”
As they began to speak rapidly in Dutch the heavy on the door had joined in and Alex took the chance to look through the open door into the flat.
It was dark and dim inside; the only window in the kitchen area being directly opposite the alley wall, so Alex imagined that was in a state of almost constant darkness.
“Feet!” Erik had suddenly barked at Alex, breaking off from his conversation and throwing a couple of plastic shoe covers over to him.
