Miranda nodded, as if I had provided her with some very sensible advice.
Tim was busy with his phone. I glanced down at what he was doing. Coming out for beers? someone had texted him. Can’t bro, on a hot date, he replied. He put the phone back in his pocket. A hot date?
I hadn’t been anybody’s hot date for at least a decade. There was something attractive about being desired. Unlike being with Mark, who’d said I scared him. We’d been lovers and now I scared him?
More drinks turned up. This time one for me as well. I’d always had a rule about people at work. Everybody would know within a day. There were no secrets here. Maybe it had just been a joke. I stared at the foam on top of my beer. Maybe he wanted to sound interesting to someone. He couldn’t possibly see drinks with me as a hot date. Or could he? I looked sideways and saw that he was staring at me. Our eyes locked and I had to hold on to my beer to stop my hand from reaching out and touching him. Desire washed over my body. This would be a really stupid thing to do.
I took a gulp of my beer and was instantly saved from myself. I was so nauseous that I had to stop drinking or I would throw up. ‘I’ve gotta go home.’ Being sick would definitely not make a good impression. The words were hard to form in my mouth. I could feel by the way my tongue moved that I was slurring them. I stood up, lifting my leg carefully high enough to get it over the bench. If I fell over now, I would never live it down. I used to be able to drink a lot more, but now I could only ever handle a certain amount of alcohol, and my stomach was telling me that my limit had been reached a couple of beers ago.
‘Are you sure?’Tim said. ‘We’ve got people joining us,’ he looked at his watch, ‘in ten minutes or so.’
‘No, I’ve really got to go home.’
‘Well, it is a school night.’ Maarten’s comment told me I hadn’t been fooling anybody.
I shrugged. ‘I’m on lates tomorrow.’
Maarten smiled. ‘Sorry we couldn’t get you any fireworks tonight. I know you’re expecting that these days.’
I looked down at Tim. Fireworks enough. Maybe he would offer to walk me home. Walk me home, as if we were teenagers or something. I had to leave right now. I said my goodbyes again. Muttered something about a nice evening and seeing them tomorrow.
I walked back through the warm night. It reminded me of being young and on holiday in Spain or Italy with a bunch of friends. Partying all night, sleeping all day. Picking up some guy in between.
I got home, fed Pippi and started to send Tim a text. I thought about that one line for twenty minutes, wanted to let him know that I had enjoyed myself but not write something so stupid that he would show it to Maarten and make me the laughing stock of the office for the next month or so. In the end I went for Thanks for the drinks. That was fun. Nobody died! Using proper punctuation probably showed my age.
I brushed my teeth and managed not to be sick, then drank two large glasses of water, as if that would make tomorrow’s hangover less severe. Luckily I didn’t have to be at work until midday. I opened Skype. The dot next to Mark’s name was green. Went for drinks with my new colleague. Think he fancies me. I hit send and felt really good about that. It would remind him that other people didn’t think I was scary. He might even Skype me back.
Chapter Twelve
Of course I had a vicious headache the next morning. What had I expected? I wasn’t a great drinker, and the older I got, the worse my hangovers were. It felt as if the alcohol had shrunk my head so that my skull was now crushing my brain. The numbers on the alarm clock indicated that it was not even 5 a.m., but it was already another sunny day. I started to hate summer. I stumbled into the bathroom with my eyes half closed to self-medicate with a couple of paracetamol tablets. I swallowed the pills with a glug of water and my stomach heaved immediately. The sudden taste of bile in my mouth tipped my nausea over the edge and I only just made it to the toilet bowl in time. Both tablets floated undissolved in swirls of yellow-green. I rested my forehead on the rim.
Pippi headbutted my bare foot and meowed.
‘Silly puss,’ I said. ‘It’s too early for food.’ I petted her, then rinsed my mouth under the cold tap and sat down on the floor. The tiles were actually pleasantly cool under my bare legs. Pippi dropped down next to me and showed me her white stomach. She purred.
Maybe I should just stay here and sleep sitting like this. I was never going to drink again. Ever.
I woke up again when my head tipped back and hit the hard edge of the bathtub. My left leg had gone to sleep. I stretched it and grimaced at the pins and needles shooting down it. Not so comfortable any more. I pushed myself to standing, grabbed a clean washcloth and held it under the tap until it was soaked. I swallowed two new paracetamol tablets. Pippi did her best to trip me up as I dragged my body back into the bedroom. I explained to her that if I fell and broke my neck, there would be nobody here to feed her. I didn’t think she got it.
I collapsed onto the bed and put the wet cloth over my face. I was still too warm. I rubbed the insides of my wrists on the cloth. Finally the paracetamol took the edge off the pain so that I could get the only cure for a hangover: sleep.
Two hours later, I had another go at getting up. I swung my legs out of bed and sat on the edge. Being upright was really hard work. My head was still fragile and my throat hurt from throwing up. If it hadn’t been so hot, I might have slept longer, but I was thirsty and uncomfortable. A cold shower, that was what I needed, and a cup of coffee to drive the last shards of the headache away. Try not to be sick again.
Probably tempted by my bare feet, Pippi tapped my leg with an outstretched paw. She meowed. Had I fed her last night? I couldn’t remember. Maybe that was why she’d been so insistent at an insanely early hour. From some point, the evening was a blur. I couldn’t even recall getting home. Dressed only in underwear and a T-shirt, I shuffled into the kitchen. There was some food left in her bowl so I must have given her something to eat before I went to bed. Autopilot seemed to have functioned. I fed her again, then picked up my phone to Skype Mark about anything at all. Maybe I could make a joke about how much I had been drinking. My muddled brain reminded me that I really shouldn’t, and I was extremely good and didn’t even open Skype to see if there was a green dot by his name.
A cold shower would take more energy than I had right now. I put some bread in the toaster. My stomach lurched at the thought of cheese, so I spread just enough butter on to lubricate the toast to the point where I could actually swallow it.
Piece of toast in one hand, cup of coffee in the other, I sat down at the table and stared out over the canal. The caffeine expanded the veins in my brain and the headache slowly drained away until my eyes were capable of focusing again. I had that shower and spent longer than usual doing my hair and make-up. Yesterday’s sun had thrown some colour on my face but this morning’s hangover had wiped it away. This halfway length of my hair looked good once I’d dried it properly. I put on my favourite blue T-shirt and my new white jeans. Not too bad for a forty-three-year-old who felt like shit.
Then my mobile rang and the call ruined whatever hadn’t been bad yet that morning.
As soon as I opened the communal door downstairs, I was assaulted by the heat. Even though driving would come with the guaranteed cold of the air con, I was worried that I was still over the limit. So instead I unlocked my bike and hoped that cycling would blow some cool wind over my face. The air was filled with the smell of stagnant water and dying fish.
The streets were busy. It was just before 10 a.m., and the tourists were out in force. A group of Asian people were walking three abreast down my road. I rang my bell. Nobody moved out of the way. There was something about being in a group that made people think they didn’t have to pay attention to anybody else. Or pay attention at all. I rang my bell again. I shouted, ‘Get out of the way.’ There was a gap just big enough between a woman holding an umbrella as a parasol and one of Amsterdam’s red-brown bollards to get my bike through. That umbrella di
dn’t seem such a stupid idea. Just as I was skirting past, the woman at the front brought the group to a halt to tell them something historical about the canal. A man stepped back and I almost clipped him with my bike. If my head hadn’t been so delicate I would have shaken it vigorously to show him what an idiot he was. Instead I was just grateful not to have hit him, because I could have tumbled into the canal. Though at least that would have been cool.
Once I was out of the canal ring, the cycling got easier, with fewer tourists seeking their death – or more likely a small scratch – beneath my bike tyres. Two more turnings and the department store loomed large. Light bounced off the glass front and pierced through my sunglasses.
Ronald de Boer was waiting for me next to the perfume counter, just like last time. ‘Come with me on my round,’ he said. ‘I need to talk to you.’
Yes, I’d guessed that, otherwise you wouldn’t have called me, I thought, but I couldn’t be bothered to say it. Instead I nodded and followed him to the lifts at the back. We stepped in and Ronald pressed the button for the garage floor.
A sign in the elevator said the maximum load was ten people, but it felt as if there wasn’t even enough room for two. I had never suffered from claustrophobia, but this was what it must feel like, being in a small space and desperate to get out.
Ronald stared at the lift door and it gave me the chance to look at his greying hair cut very short at the back. ‘I told my father about meeting with you,’ I said to break the tension that only I was probably feeling.
The lift stopped. ‘How is Piet?’ Ronald looked intently at the doors, as if that would make them open more quickly.
‘He’s very well.’
He held an arm into the beam of the doors to make sure they weren’t going to close, and let me step out first. ‘I need to tell you something. I don’t want anybody watching or overhearing us.’ The car park was half full. He stopped at a very specific spot. ‘Just keep a pace to the left,’ he said.
I followed his command without really wondering why. ‘So what’s up?’ I said.
Ronald pointed to two corners. ‘There are security cameras there and there. They cover most of the area but not where we’re standing now. They did a lousy job with their security system; there’s loads of these black spots where you can stand without being seen or overheard. Especially here in the car park.’
I waited. I didn’t want to ask him again what he’d called me here to talk about, or what his problem was. He seemed deep in thought and stared at the nearest car as if it was giving him an answer to the question about the meaning of life.
‘Piotr,’ he finally said. ‘There was something going on. It throws a new light on … well maybe on his death.’
I frowned. Someone came out of the second elevator and I stayed silent as a woman loaded with stacks of parcels made her way to her car. Only after she’d put everything in the boot did I say softly to Ronald, ‘And what lies are you going to tell me this time?’
He turned around suddenly and walked back to the elevator. ‘Just come up to the sixth floor and watch something.’ He called the lift and held the door open.
I got in because I didn’t have the energy to walk up the stairs, but I pressed the button for the ground floor. ‘No, I’m leaving. I don’t know why I came in the first place.’ Was it because I’d felt too awful to think straight? Or was it because my father had told me that I needed to forgive Ronald? That was easy enough to say in theory but really hard in practice. Maybe I wasn’t the forgiving kind.
When the doors opened again, I stepped forward to get out, but Ronald stopped me by grabbing my wrist. ‘It won’t take long.’ He held me back just long enough for a stream of people to enter. A woman pushed her pram in, effectively blocking me, and I had to withdraw to the corner. With the maximum number of people now in the lift, I was pushed close to Ronald. We stopped at the second floor and the open doors showed a glimpse of four mannequins wearing sequinned jeans and nothing else. The woman with the pram got out. This was the moment when I could have got out as well, but I stayed where I was and watched the numbers count further up. We arrived at the sixth floor with a cheerful ping that belied my dark doubts.
‘Hey, Alex.’ Ronald flicked some imaginary hairs from his shoulder. ‘Could you show her what we were looking at earlier?’
‘Are you sure?’ Alex’s lips threatened to break out in a smile. He was only barely controlling the muscles around his mouth.
‘Yes please.’ Ronald sat down.
Alex’s blue eyes narrowed but he switched the display on one of the monitors. ‘We were looking at some old footage of Piotr.’
‘Show me.’
He clicked play and the image of Piotr, seen from the back, jumped onto the screen. Behind him, you could just see a row of changing rooms. Piotr was wearing the dark suit that was the security guards’ uniform. He greeted a woman in a tight-fitting white dress, long-sleeved, with a belt around her waist. Even on the grainy footage Natalie looked beautiful. She walked into view, a huge smile on her face. They didn’t touch when they greeted each other, probably in case anyone was watching. She looked around, then pulled him behind her into one of the changing rooms. The door closed. It was as if nobody had ever been there, now that they were in the privacy of the small cubicle.
For the next minute, nobody came in or out of the area. The door behind which Piotr and Natalie had disappeared stayed shut. Only if you had seen all the footage would you know there were two people in one of the changing rooms. Then they both re-emerged.
‘You know, he didn’t stay in there long,’ Alex said.
Natalie tried to look serious but a delighted grin kept appearing around her lips. She looked radiantly happy as she touched Piotr’s arm. He said something, then turned back to continue his round.
‘Sorry, I shouldn’t have said that now that he’s dead.’
They both disappeared from view again, going in their separate directions.
‘When was this?’
‘Three weeks ago,’ Alex muttered to the screen in front of him.
‘It was on a Monday evening, half an hour before closing time. It’s always quiet then. Nobody in the changing rooms,’ Ronald said. His mobile rang. He swore, then picked up the call. I only caught a hint of the voice on the other end of the line, but the little I could hear sounded more and more angry. A male voice. He talked for longer than the footage of Piotr and Natalie had lasted.
Ronald slumped on his chair and rubbed his forehead. ‘There must have been a mistake,’ he said. ‘Don’t do this, please don’t do this.’
It sounded as if the man was shouting, and then there was silence.
‘Hello?’ Ronald said. ‘Hello, Mr van Buren?’ He looked at his phone. ‘The asshole has hung up. Fuck!’ He made a gesture as if he was going to throw the phone at the wall but restrained himself. Instead he stomped towards the security manager’s office. ‘Kevin, what’s going on? Did we not get paid this morning?’
‘Don’t you ever read your emails? There’s been a little delay; you’ll get paid tomorrow.’
‘You bastards. I work all hours and you don’t give me my money?’
Alex and I exchanged a look. ‘There’s some problem with our overtime schedule,’ he whispered.
Ronald came back into the room. He looked sick. ‘Alex, can you give me a hand?’
‘I’m sorry, I’m stuck here for another four hours.’
Ronald grimaced and looked at me. ‘Do you have a car? I think all my stuff is stacked on the pavement.’
I shook my head. ‘You’re kidding, right?’
‘Please?’ He paused. ‘You know you owe me.’
I would have refused if my hangover hadn’t been so bad. Right now I couldn’t summon up the energy to argue. It was just easier to cycle back with Ronald to my flat to pick up my car.
I parked on a grubby street. The houses might have been nice at one point, but there were so many bells by every door that they must have been split up
into bedsits. More people always equated to more garbage. Also, the people in this road seemed unable to figure out the not particularly complicated system of which bin to put out which week. There was a mixture of green and grey ones on the roadside, as if that would maximise the chances of getting the rubbish collected. The grey ones hadn’t been emptied, of course, and now, two days after collection day, one of them had been kicked over and the garbage was spread over the pavement. Milk cartons, a chicken carcass and plastic bags tied around indescribable waste had started to stink in the incessant heat. I stepped out into the road to avoid an apple core. That should have gone in the green bin anyway.
I took a long look at the house that Ronald had indicated. The paint was flaking around the windows. A pile of black bin bags was stacked on the pavement. ‘This is where you live?’
‘Lived.’
‘It’s a shithole.’
‘I’m on the waiting list for some better housing.’ He shrugged. ‘In the meantime, this was the best I could afford.’
‘How much longer?’
‘A friend of mine promised to speed it up. He said it will be two weeks at most.’
‘Where are you going to live until then?’
‘I’ll find something. Once we get paid, I’ll stay in a hotel or something.’
He grabbed two of the bin bags, and only then did I realise that they contained his possessions. He carried them to the boot of my car.
‘They can’t just kick you out.’ I took another of the bags. It was lighter than I’d expected. ‘You have rights.’
‘Not here, and not if you don’t pay your rent.’
‘What? Why didn’t you?’
He stopped suddenly, bin bags in hand. ‘Why do you think?’ he snapped.
‘I’m sorry …’
‘If the store had paid me on time, I would have been fine. Just.’ He swung the first bag into the boot.
I carefully positioned the one I was carrying next to it. It was pathetic how little space his stuff took up in my car. I remembered times when my ex-husband and I had packed more than this for a two-week holiday. But it also reminded me of how few of my possessions I’d taken with me when I’d left him. When I’d moved out of our house because he’d cheated on me. It had been soul-destroyingly traumatic.
Death on the Canal Page 11
