Double Deceit

by Julienne Brouwers

  I pondered his words for a moment. “But then I might never have found out about the whole affair,” I said, outraged at the thought.

  “Maybe he would have come clean. Maybe not.” He shrugged. “And maybe it doesn’t really matter that much. I didn’t see Oliver often, but on the few occasions I did run into him, I saw a man who really cared about his wife and child,” Hans said and smiled.

  His comforting words helped. I wasn’t sure whether it was true what Hans was claiming, but I wanted to believe it. This heartfelt one-on-one with my colleague made me realise that I’d missed the talks Oliver and I used to have at the end of the day. A partner, a friend who was always there for you to discuss anything. Would I ever be able to find that again?

  I slid my arm across the table and gave Hans an amicable pat on the shoulder. “Thank you. Nathalie is lucky to have you.”

  “I know,” he said without a trace of sarcasm.

  I smiled and finished up my sandwich.

  “Listen,” Hans said suddenly. “In light of all of this, what would you think if you were to work one day less for the time being?”

  His proposal caught me by surprise and before I could respond, Hans pressed on.

  “Like you said, you hardly have any time for yourself. In the past you were able to do something fun over the weekend or in the evenings. Sports, or something,” he said, as if it was an activity he’d never choose himself. “Or meet up with a friend.”

  “I’ve got my parents,” I sputtered. “They help me out quite a lot.”

  “Happy to hear that, but if you were to have a full day each week to yourself, it’d give you a little room to breathe.”

  I scratched my face. “Maybe you’re right. But how would we manage the practice?”

  “Tom could probably pitch in. He’s already starting to become a lot more independent. If you’d be flexible about which day you’d take off, then we can probably make a schedule that suits all three of us.”

  The thought of a weekly day off gave me a rush of energy. A wonderful feeling of lightness flowed through me as I began playing “what if” scenarios in my imagination. It’d be perfect to have a moment of no obligations and responsibilities. “Yes, of course, that shouldn’t be a problem at all. I’ll leave the arrangements at Tim’s day-care as they are, so that I really have that day to myself,” I said with a slight feeling of guilt, which I immediately shook off again. It was in Tim’s best interest that I looked after myself. After all, I was everything he had now, and I had to ensure that I remained well equipped to take good care of him.

  “Alright then, that’s settled,” Hans said firmly, leaving no room for second thoughts on my part.

  He glanced at his watch. “We ought to go, Jennifer. Duty calls.”

  Was it that late again? I’d intended to inform Hans about the visits that Sandra and I’d paid to Mason & McGant and the findings we’d made, but there hadn’t been any opportunity. Sandra didn’t want anything to do with it anymore, that was clear, but I wasn’t ready to call it quits. I’d hit a dead end and I was in two minds as to how to proceed. To my regret, there was no time left to discuss the matter with Hans – the patients would be undoubtedly waiting for us back at the practice.

  That evening, I curled up on the couch with a cup of tea and turned on one of my favourite Netflix series. I’d already finished the last season with Oliver, but had started watching it from scratch again. This time, however, I was struggling to stay focused. I’d tried to find closure with regards to Oliver’s sudden death and focus on the future, but I had such a strong suspicion that Oliver’s death was linked to some illicit practices at Mason & McGant, that I found it increasingly hard to let it go.

  My stomach started growling. A glance at my watch told me that I’d normally have dinner around this time. Tim was staying with my parents tonight and so I had the house to myself. I paused the series and headed for the kitchen. I opened the fridge and had a look inside, but to my disappointment, there was little left at my disposal for a nutritious meal. I decided I’d order a pizza later on.

  I grabbed my phone from the coffee table. Sandra had been crystal clear about no longer wanting to do me a good turn, yet I still wanted to make one final attempt to persuade her otherwise. She was the only one who, like me, believed that something shady was going on, moreover, she had something I needed.

  An unfamiliar man answered my call, sounding deflated. “Hello.”

  I was befuddled. Had I called the wrong number? “Er … It’s Jennifer,” I stammered. “Jennifer Smits. Who’s this? I was looking for Sandra.”

  “You’re speaking to Sandra’s husband.”

  “Right,” I said, feeling relieved. “Can I speak to her?”

  I’d expected him to say something along the lines of ‘sure, just one sec’ or ‘she’ll be right there’. Instead he replied, “Sandra has passed away.”

  I felt the wind knocked out of me. The nausea that had been bothering me so often lately, was suddenly present again, ever so fiercely.

  I sank down on the sofa. “Passed away?” I croaked.

  “She was involved in an accident three days ago on her bike.” He spoke without a trace of emotion. “She was hit by a tram.”

  I gasped. This was unbelievable. Everybody living in Amsterdam knew you had to be careful with trams. Sandra didn’t seem like the type to be reckless. “What happened?” I whispered.

  “The precise circumstances are still unknown. An investigation has been launched,” he stated, as if he was a police officer, but I knew that wasn’t the case and presumed his formal speech was due to a state of shock.

  I started pacing up and down the living room. “Where did the accident take place?”

  “In the Baarsjes neighbourhood, she was smashed by tram twelve.” The man named the exact street, which I knew to be a long and busy road, winding through the city. “It’s all so surreal,” he added, his voice sounding raspy.

  “So surreal,” I repeated softly. What was Sandra doing in that less affluent neighbourhood? I’m sure she would have considered it to be ‘the wrong side of the track’. Although I wasn’t aware of her exact address, I knew that the location of the accident was a considerable distance from her own neighbourhood and even though the Baarsjes was now considered an up and coming area, I had the impression that Sandra preferred to remain in the more exclusive parts of the city.

  ‘I’m really sorry. I need to go,” the man apologised. “There’s so much that needs taking care of.”

  “Of course,” I responded, feeling somewhat appalled at my own lack of sensitivity. I was bombarding that poor man with all these questions, while I of all people knew how much he had on his plate. “I’m truly sorry for your loss,” I added solemnly.

  “Thank you.”

  Something suddenly came to my mind. “Hold on. When is the memorial service going to be held?

  “Tomorrow at eleven o’clock.” He gave the name of the crematorium. “I can’t quite comprehend that she’s never coming back,” he whispered.

  “I know how you must feel. It’s gut-wrenching,” I said, and for a moment the devastated feeling of the first week after Oliver’s death washed over me again.

  He didn’t seem to have heard me, or perhaps he didn’t want to go into it. “You’re more than welcome to attend. The more of Sandra’s friends and acquaintances show up, the better. How did you know my wife, by the way?”

  It seemed out of the question to give an honest answer. There was no point in hurting that man any more than necessary. I knew exactly what it felt like to discover secrets after your spouse’s death – the intense feeling of loss and sorrow suddenly clouded by a mixture of anger and confusion. “I was a friend of Sandra’s,” I answered.

  “I see.” He seemed satisfied with my answer. “Right then, I hope I’ll meet you tomorrow.”

  I mumbled something in agreement, wished him all the best, and ended the conversation.

  I leaned back and stared outside, wher
e the slanting light of dusk came pouring through the windows. It was unfathomable – Sandra had been killed in an accident. How was this possible? I considered ringing up her husband again and offering my help as I knew he could certainly use it right now, but then decided it would be odd considering the situation. He presumably had plenty of friends and family to assist him.

  I walked to the kitchen to pour myself a glass of Pinot Grigio. Lately, I appeared to have regained control of my drinking habits as I managed to spend the weekdays without any alcohol, but now I desperately needed a drop to calm my nerves.

  I took a sip of the cool liquid and felt it burn in my empty stomach, sending a rush of heat through my body. I suddenly came to the realisation that without the access card from Sandra, I wouldn’t be able to gain entry to Mason & McGant and continue my search for answers. I immediately felt ashamed by my selfish thinking.

  The sound of my phone ringing disrupted my thoughts.

  I answered the call and returned to the living room.

  “Hi Lindsey,” I said and heard how flat I sounded.

  She knew me all too well. “What’s the matter? I thought you were enjoying a relaxed evening without Tim.”

  I took another sip of the wine and lowered myself onto the soft cushions of the couch. “I just received some rather disturbing news,” I responded. “Remember I recently went to Mason & McGant with that Sandra woman?”

  How could she have forgotten? I’d shared it with her during our appointment on Boxing Day and she’d made no secrets of her concerns. “Of course I remember you trespassing. Twice, actually,” she said pointedly.

  I ignored her reproach and told her what I’d just heard.

  The sound of her voice changed. “Oh dear. What a horrible accident,” she said. “Hit by a tram you said? She’s had terrible luck, to put it harshly.”

  “You can say that again,” I responded, gulping down more wine. “I still can’t believe it.” I wanted to share with Lindsey that I found it all very disturbing – first Oliver had died as a result of an accident and now Sandra. But I knew Lindsey’s opinion was that I should leave all this behind me and I therefore decided to keep my mouth shut.

  “I hadn’t known her that long and the circumstances in which we met were far from ideal, that goes without saying, but she wasn’t that bad,” I said truthfully, feeling the wine slowly relax me.

  “It’s awful,” Lindsey said, then changed the subject. “I thought you’d decided to let the matter rest. Why did you ring her up again?”

  I swallowed audibly. “I wanted to ask if I could borrow her husband’s key card,” I reluctantly admitted. I was willing to go all out to gain access to Mason & McGant so that I could record the images on the DVDs with my phone and share them with the police.

  She let out a loud sigh that turned into a grunt. “Jen, what in heaven’s name is going on? You really have to stop this quest. You ought to focus your attention on yourself, make a fresh start. I told you before that I think you’re reading too much into it, but if you really want to undertake anything, you should go directly to the police. Those people are trained for these things.”

  “Yeah sure,” I responded, biting my tongue, but I didn’t feel much for her plan. Arguably she was right, but I wanted to leave no stone unturned to make sure I’d have sufficient, concrete evidence to convince the detectives. I got up and walked to the kitchen to pour myself a refill.

  Lindsey carried on remonstrating. “This is starting to sound like a wild-goose chase, if you ask me. Of all things, you definitely shouldn’t break into Mason & McGant again. Imagine someone catches you this time. It would all blow up in your face.”

  I uttered a yelp and cursed loudly. I looked at the bottom of my foot, and discovered a Duplo block attached to it. I removed it and angrily tossed it into the box it should have been stored in.

  “What happened?” Lindsey asked, now sounding worried.

  “Nothing,” I grumbled and yanked open the fridge. I still hadn’t taken the effort to find someone to fix the stiff door. I emptied the bottle of wine into my glass and saw that it was my last. Maybe it was for the best.

  “Can you please promise me you you’ll let it go and try to move on?” Lindsey pressed on.

  I winced and held the phone away from my ear.

  “Do something fun and relaxing for yourself. Something positive. Something constructive,” I heard Lindsey babbling from a distance.

  This sounded like a slogan coming straight from the advertising agency where Lindsey was a project manager, I thought, and frowned.

  “Try to get it out of your system. Why don’t you go on one of those yoga retreats on Ibiza or whatever and ask your parents to watch Timmy?”

  A sigh escaped my lips.

  “Well?” she insisted.

  I didn’t want to make any false promises, but there was something I had in mind. “Alright. I’ll plan something fun.” I told her about the agreement I’d made with Hans and that I’d have a full day off every week for the time being. “Maybe we can have lunch together?” I suggested, something I normally wouldn’t manage on workdays, since my practice was located too far from Lindsey’s office.

  “I have a much better idea,” she chirped. “Why don’t we go out for drinks tonight? Let’s go out the old-fashioned way, go clubbing. We could head to Paradiso or better still, Jimmy Woo.”

  I moaned internally at the thought of a night on the town and leaned my head back against the fridge door. I felt like taking a rain check, but acknowledged it would be good for me to get out, instead of being cooped up in the house in front of the television with a tub of chocolate ice cream, my mind wandering off again.

  I opened my eyes. “Maybe it’s not such a bad idea,” I said, perking up.

  “It’s settled then,” Lindsey responded, before I could change my mind. “I’ll pick you up around nine.”

  17

  “Ow,” I groaned with a mouth as dry as dust. My tongue stuck to my palate like a piece of leather, my lips were cracked and chapped. I was in desperate need of a glass of water. I couldn’t recall the last time I’d had such a throbbing headache. My feet felt swollen and stiff as a result of a night spent teetering on high heels.

  I gingerly opened one eye. A stabbing pain in my forehead made me promptly close it again. The sun was shining unhampered into the bedroom as I’d evidently forgotten to close the curtains last night.

  As I turned onto my right side, the room starting spinning around me. A wave of nausea surged over me – I solemnly pledged never to drink this much again.

  Although I felt miserable, I had a smile on my lips – it had been a wonderful evening. Our clubbing night had accomplished something that I hadn’t been able to do for ages, sleep for hours straight without tossing and turning. I picked up my phone from the nightstand and saw that I’d received a photo from my mother, in which she was finger-painting with Tim. I smiled in the knowledge that I didn’t have to get up or take care of anyone for a while and dozed off.

  Not much later, the parched feeling became so prevalent that I had to drag myself out of bed. After I chugged two glasses of water and inspected myself in the bathroom mirror, I took a long, hot shower.

  As I gorged on a double sandwich with fried bacon and egg, I skimmed through the newspaper, with a cup of coffee, while sat on one of the kitchen stools. It was wonderful to take the time for myself without worrying about Tim.

  I read through the funeral announcements, scanning the names of the deceased, but they didn’t include a Sandra. I only now realised that I had no idea what her last name was.

  I tapped my foot on the metal frame of the stool and glanced at my watch. The memorial service was due to start in half an hour. Sandra’s husband had said he’d like me to attend it. It somehow felt intrusive to go there, but surely it would be the decent thing to do, to pay my respects?

  I dashed upstairs to my bedroom, pulled open the drawer of the wardrobe and found my smart black trousers, freshly washed
and ironed by Alejandra. I combined them with a light grey blouse, scurried downstairs again, grabbed my coat from the rack and got on my bike. I looked up the location in my phone and concluded that I should be able to arrive within twenty minutes.

  Battling on my bike against the gusts of wind, I made it by the skin of my teeth, the back of my shirt all wet from sweating as I strode past the hearse that was parked at the entrance of the crematorium. As I quietly closed the glass door behind me, I noticed the large turnout to the memorial service. The church had been packed at Oliver’s funeral as well and I remembered how much comfort and warmth it had brought me. I quietly joined some people standing behind the last row of chairs, not wanting to draw attention to myself. Cautiously I looked around me, but didn’t recognise anyone.

  At the front of the aisle stood a closed, oak coffin with a framed photo on top. It was hard to grasp that Sandra was really in there. The vivid memories of Oliver’s farewell service seemed to grab hold of me and left me with a sharp ache in my heart.

  I started blinking rapidly. Don’t think about that now, I tried to soothe myself.

  A man seated in the front got up from his chair and went to stand behind the lectern, the deep lines in his face and dark circles under his eyes visible even from where I was standing. He squared his shoulders and then introduced himself as Sandra’s brother. The broken man held an emotional eulogy on how he and Sandra used to be inseparable when they were growing up. Behind him, photos of a young Sandra were displayed in a slide show on a screen. Around me I heard snivelling and sobbing.

  Amidst the large crowd, I noticed a man with brown hair in the front row, a spasm of pain contorted his face. Although I couldn’t entirely see him, I estimated that he was of a comparable age to Sandra and made the assumption he was her husband. Next to him was an older couple, their heads bent forward, hunched and with rounded shoulders, presumably Sandra’s parents. The old lady sobbed inconsolably while the man I conjectured to be Sandra’s husband slid an arm around her.