by J. M. Hewitt
“Come to the surgery next Tuesday, the 14th. Around 9 a.m. and don’t drink or eat anything after midnight on Monday.”
He’s waiting for a response and she manages to nod her ascent. He claps his hands together, glances around and says a cheery goodbye.
Elian watches as moves up onto the promenade and makes his way slowly down past the pier. She wonders why he’s walked all the way down here before dawn, or if he drove. Where did he park his car?
The notebook is crushing her chest through her hoodie and she holds it at arms length and gazes at it. Could it be that he didn’t read it? Maybe she’s just so suspicious of everyone and everything and it might be that he is just a kind, albeit lonely, man.
She’ll never know, not for sure, and there’s no sense in adding it to her already large list of worries.
And she’s got an M.R.I appointment. That’s one piece of good news. Regardless of the results she’ll know what her situation is, whether it is just psychological trauma or a real injury.
The sun is coming up for real now, dancing on the surface of the sea as the orb shines bright with promise of another hot day.
Suddenly Elian feels very tired, and as she clutches the card and the notebook tightly, she makes her way back to the apartment, knowing that this time when she crawls into her bed, she’ll sleep soundly.
53
ERIK FONS & ALEX HARVEY
HOOFDBUREAU
11.7.15 Early morning
Alex calls Luke’s mobile as soon as they reach the police station. He can feel Erik’s eyes on him, and he knows that the Inspectuer wants to berate him for his use of the office phone. He also knows Erik won’t chastise him, Alex is needed now, and they both know it.
“Luke, its Al, what have you got for me?” Alex asks as his friend and sometime colleague answers the telephone.
“Jesus, Al, do you know what time it is?”
Alex glances at his watch. It’s 6 a.m. here and he can’t remember what the time is back home. Either way, it’s early, too early for telephone calls.
“Sorry, dude,” replies Alex guiltily. “I just got your message that you’ve got the test results.”
There’s a pause as Alex waits. He hears coughing, muffled whispers and then Luke comes back on the line. “You’ve got company?” Alex asks.
“Maybe.” There is a smile in Luke’s tone and Alex feels a momentary pang for the similar life he used to lead.
Used to being the operative word. He can’t remember the last time he thought about picking up a woman. June 3rd is the last date etched on his mind. The first – and only time – he bedded Elian and around the time he stopped looking at all the other women who crossed his path.
“So, what have you go for me?”
Luke clears his throat. “Niko Lipin is the biological father.”
Alex releases his breath and sinks into a chair. “What?”
“Niko Lipin, the deceased–”
“I heard you,” interrupts Alex. “I just can’t believe it.”
Although it was always the more likely choice, after all, Afia had spent years with Niko; she had only met Klim once a year, the odds were always going to be in that bastards favour. But it seems so awfully unfair that wicked, despicable Niko is Elian’s father, rather than solid, decent Klim.
“Anything else, mate? Or can I get back to bed now?” asks Luke.
“No, thank you so much. Actually, can you scan a copy of it over to me?” Alex reels off his mobile and hangs up.
Minutes later his phone pings and he brings the image up on the screen. It is true, Niko is 99.97800% likely to be the father of Elian Gould. He shuts off the phone and shoves it in his pocket. He is desperately sad, and it’s a new feeling for him, to care so much about someone else’s bad news.
“Erik!” He calls, striding over to where the Inspectuer has spread out all of the murdered victim’s files. “Have you run Elian’s name through your system yet?”
Erik looks up, his eyes wearier than ever, and Alex reminds himself that it’s been at least a couple of days since the man slept.
“Let’s do it now,” he replies and wheels his chair over to the nearest monitor.
As Erik logs on Alex sits down next to him. “Maybe you should get some rest after this, you haven’t slept in days.”
Erik ignores the comment about getting rest and when the system is booted up he turns to Alex. “What’s her name?”
“Elian Gould,” replies Alex and spells out both names.
The database is linked with all police and emergency services throughout Holland. Knowing that the missing girl has only been here a few weeks, Erik tweaks his computerised commands to only show any active status for the last week of June and the first week of July. A mixture of possibilities of both names comes up and Erik dismisses them based on the date of birth or gender. There is only one that stands out and he pulls it up full size on the screen for Alex to view.
“Just the forename, no age, no address and no surname,” he says, running his pen under the entry.
“What does it mean?” Alex asks as he leans close to the screen.
Erik opens the notes section and together they scan through it. “This girl here, she visited Doctor Bastiaan on the 6th July. It won’t say what for or if she received any treatment, that’s confidential and we’d need a court order for that information.”
“Shit,” swears Alex, quietly. “So what can we do? How can we find out if it was her?”
Erik yawns loudly and stretches in his chair. “We can pay a visit to the doctor, I want to speak to him again anyway, see if there is any link that we’re not aware of between these girls.” He sweeps his hand across the victim’s files.
“Would he know? I mean, in England you’re lucky if you ever see the same doctor at your surgery.”
“It’s quite different here; Bram has been looking after the working girls for years, decades actually.”
He leans back, pen tapping thoughtfully on the screen, recalling the last visit he paid to the doctor who was rather rude and obnoxious.
A wave of tiredness hits him and he yawns again. Alex was right, days and nights have passed since he last slept in his bed and he needs to get back to the hospital to check on Naomi.
A dark cloud of misery hits him at the thought of her. He’s torn between hating her for what she’s done to them as a couple, and wanting her to wake up and get better.
“I do need to sleep,” he admits to Alex. “But here, in case anything happens. Will you come back and wake me in an hour?”
Alex smiles sympathetically at him, a look which grates on Erik intensely.
“I’ll go back to the hotel, get changed and I’ll come back here at lunchtime. I’ll bring us some food, okay?”
Grudgingly, Erik concedes. And without saying goodbye he makes his way into the inner office and lies down on the couch.
But despite being zombie-tired, sleep is hard to come. And when it finally catches him, his slumber is filled with visions of Naomi and a faceless, nameless other man.
55
ELIAN AND THE DOCTOR
HOLLAND SPOOR
14.7.15 Early Morning
Elian stands motionless in front of the surgery door to collect herself. It’s a little before 9 a.m., she’s right on time for her meeting with the doctor, and from here they will travel together to the hospital so she can have the scan. She runs through the details in her head, pleased that she remembers clearly why she is here and what the plan is. But if she recalls it all in perfect details, does she need to go through this at all?
Yes, she decides firmly. Because there have been many instances where she has failed to remember, and just because today is a good day it doesn’t mean tomorrow will be.
Elian takes a deep breath, knocks, and blinks in surprise as the door is opened immediately. Was the doctor waiting on the other side of the door? Does he know she’s been standing here for five minutes?
“You are very punctual,” he smiles
as he speaks, but his usually relaxed face is taut as he looks past her to the road, his eyes darting this way and that before he steps back and opens his arm, a welcoming gesture for her to step inside.
He shuts the door behind her, side-stepping Elian and walking ahead into his surgery. Dutifully she follows.
“You’ll need to take that,” he says, pointing to a tall glass of milky looking fluid. “It’s a contrast material so everything inside shows up nice and clear on the scan. Give it a stir.” He hands her a length of plastic.
Elian looks at it, it’s not a spoon, in fact it looks an awful lot like the tool they use when they do a smear test. She swallows loudly in the silence of the room, then, feeling stupid, she swirls it around the drink slowly.
He still seems distracted to her, moving around his office, lifting up piles of paper and setting them down again. After watching him for a moment, Elian decides she prefers him this way. She is more relaxed when he is like this, rather than his usual overly attentive self.
As per his instructions she hasn’t had anything to drink yet this morning, and even though it’s not an attractive looking beverage, it only serves to remind her how thirsty she is. Picking up the glass, holding the ‘spoon’ to one side, she emits a little groan of relief as she swallows it all down, the cold liquid immediately quenching her thirst.
Ten minutes later, the drink all gone, Elian is sitting in his chair, wondering when they are going to leave for the hospital. She clears her throat, he has been silent for ages and it is becoming uncomfortable. “I really appreciate your help, doctor,” she says. “And I can pay you, I will pay.”
He waves away her words, reaches over and picks up her empty glass, walks over to his sink and washes it up, before returning to his chair and glancing at his watch.
“Soon we shall leave.”
Elian nods, tried to offer her thanks again, but her throat and the bottom of her face feel funny. Raising a hand she rubs her jaw but realises she is stroking at her hairline instead. Looking over at him she frowns.
“Um, doctor Basitaan, I feel …” But no more words will come.
In some distant part of her mind she feels her hand make contact with the arm of the chair as it falls from her face. Fighting, she tries to keep her eyes open and her head upright, but it is a losing battle.
The last thing she recalls is the doctor standing over her, his hands cradling her face, his eyes staring into her own, her name on his lips as he whispers her name over and over again.
Elian recalls falling asleep at the doctor’s surgery as soon as she wakes up. There is no momentary confusion, no wondering where she is. It was as though she has been asleep for simply minutes.
She hasn’t been sleeping well, she acknowledges that. Now that all the stress is almost over is it possible it all caught up with her and she just fell asleep in his chair? She yawns, a wide, opened mouth yawn before catching herself.
“Doctor,” she murmurs. “I’m so sorry, I think I nodded off.”
She blinks her eyes hard, sniffs and sits up in her chair. Her eyes feel full of sleep and she rubs at them, but her wrist is caught around the strap of her bag. She shakes it free, but it won’t loosen. She looks down, squints, because the bright sunshine that has filled the sky since she came here has suddenly dulled and the doctor’s office is now gloomy and dull. She picks at the strap of her bag, even now wondering which bag she has with her today, because this material feels thick, not the normal thin leather or cotton of her usual handbags.
“Doctor Bastiaan!” she calls, but her voice is fuggy and thick sounding.
She closes her eyes again.
She was shackled, around her right ankle. Even now she can’t stand the touch of anything cold on the skin of her calf or shin.
She shakes her head as if to clear the memory. Because that’s what it is, a memory. Opening her eyes she runs her fingers down the strap of her handbag. Relief flows through her, soothing like the cool of the drink that doctor Bastiaan gave her. It’s not metal. She’s not shackled. It’s the strap of her bag.
So why can’t she move her arm? Is it possible she was in the MRI scanner right now? Had she somehow got a gap in her memory, had she forgotten travelling to the hospital? But no, that wasn’t right, you lie down in a big tunnel thing, she knew, she’d Googled it.
Wake up, Elian, for fuck’s sake, she hisses at herself in her head, slaps her hands up and down on her thighs. Wake up, look around you, figure out what’s going on.
“Doctor Bastiaan?” she calls out again, still running her fingers up and down her wrist. “Are you here?”
Two things happen simultaneously; first, she realises that it isn’t the strap of her bag that is wound around her arm, it is a rope, and it is firmly tied around her upper body, trapping her to the chair that she sits in. Before she can even fully process the realisation, a voice speaks up out of the darkness.
“He’s not here.” There’s a beat of silence, then the voice comes again. “And you better hope for your sake he’s not planning on coming back.”
It is a voice that Elian knows, it is a voice that has spoken to her before, a voice that had spoken about her, had called her ‘it’ and had called her a nigger. Had held her down and smashed his fist into her face so he could rape her with ease.
Elian opens her mouth and screams.
Lev had thought he was still under the influence of his massive drug binge when the man hauled the girl from Niko’s caravan down the stairs and shoved her inert body into a chair.
The strange man hadn’t said a word as he slowly and methodically tied the girl up. Lev watched from beneath heavy lidded eyes, his gaze flicking from the newcomer to dead Roland.
What is she doing here? The last he’d seen of her he was chasing her through the Red Forest back in Chernobyl, under orders from Fat Arnja to find her after she’d escaped his clutches. Had she … is it possible she’s followed him, Lev, all the way to the Netherlands? And why? For revenge? No, she’s just a kid, just a scrawny, little kid.
The man, his work finished, had walked back up the stairs, not even looking at Lev. Lev studied the girl as she slumped in her chair. She wasn’t dead, but he didn’t hold out much chance for her. For him, for either of them.
A noise from the other side of the girl had interrupted Lev’s thoughts. Lev grimaces, Roland’s body has been leaking puffs of air since the guy had killed him.
Lev sighs.
This was it, he’d thought. A dead end. The end. The finish of them all.
But now she has woken, and Lev has spoken, and she knows exactly who he is. Lev shouts at her to shut up, that he won’t hurt her, that he isn’t in any position to hurt anyone. He is in just the same position as her, tied up and helpless.
But she’s not hearing him, she’s just screaming, and as soon as one scream stops there is a moment of silence as she inhales to scream again.
Lev raises his eyes to the ceiling, frightened now that the man will come back down and finish them off because of the racket she’s making. Lev grasps the seat of his chair and bounces up and down, wriggling and shuffling and scraping, using all his strength until his chair is nearer hers.
“Quiet, be quiet now,” he urges.
She falls into silence, stunned no doubt that he is suddenly so close to her.
“I am in the same position as you,” he speaks in a rush, eager to get his words out before she starts up again. “That man has imprisoned me down here, just like you. I don’t know why, but I know we have to work together.” Lev nods over to Roland, even though he knows in the gloom she can’t see the third person in the room. “There’s another man there, the guy has killed him.”
Lev stops talking, suddenly exhausted, and he slumps in his chair.
“He’s not dead, not yet.”
Her words, when they finally come, startle Lev.
“What?” He cranes towards her in the darkness. “What do you mean? How do you know?”
Even in this situation he
can feel the haughtiness coming off her in waves.
“Because,” she says, “he’s trying to say something.”
Lev leans forward as far as he can, listens intently and realises she is right. He had been so preoccupied with his own thoughts, and got so used to the little puffs of air coming from what he thought was Roland’s corpse, he hadn’t even given thought that the boy might still be alive.
And he is alive. Barely, probably hanging on by a thread, but still alive.
And for some reason, a reason that Lev can’t comprehend, this fact gives him a little bit of hope that maybe he too, can get out of this living hell alive.
56
ROLAND
March 21st 2000
Smith died. He slipped quietly away a few nights ago on Mark’s bed. I was called into the bedroom, woken from a broken sleep full of nightmares, summoned to face a fresh one.
“Check him,” said Mark. “I think he’s gone.”
I didn’t have to check him, I could tell that he was dead. Stretched out on the bed, on his back, his once fine cheekbones slack, his mouth open as though his last breath was a scream.
As I stared at Smith’s corpse, I realised I’d never been permitted entry to this room before. The rest of Mark’s home, though shabby, was at least organised and relatively clean. Here, in this bedroom, it was as though Mark never expected anyone to come here, at least, nobody whose opinion mattered to him.
I could feel the filth in the carpet, crumbs and dirt sticking to my sweating, bare feet. The air was fetid and stale, the window behind the black curtain probably painted shut. The stains on the once white sheet under Smith were almost worse than the body to look at. Blood, semen, piss and shit all intermingled, forming a grotesque pattern of death.
It hit me then, what a terrible mess I’d got caught up in. The police would come back, maybe the same one that was there when Smith escaped outside. He would recognise me, he would see I lived here, he would think I was involved.
