Into the Fire

by Rachael Blok

  Adrika smiles, as Sunny pushes his blond hair off his face and glances at his reflection in the window. Sunny has a new girlfriend and he’s been taking his appearance seriously.

  Maarten forces himself to smile back. Thinking of what the super will want, his stomach is still in knots. He knows, with the dread of premonition, that this meeting will be about Marieke.

  What a coward he’d been, running this morning. He thinks of all the things he wishes he’d said. Replays the meeting, a version where he greets her like the old friend she is.

  ‘Afternoon, ma’am,’ he says, entering his office, where the super is waiting. ‘How are you?’

  She nods, moving past pleasantries, smiling brightly. ‘Good to see you, Maarten. I have a job for you this afternoon, if you don’t mind.’

  A cold hand grasps him somewhere below his diaphragm. It can be no coincidence after seeing her earlier.

  ‘There’s a politician staying in St Albans this weekend, from Holland. I believe she lives in Rotterdam, where you’re originally from?’

  He nods. It’s the only part of his body that moves; the rest of him is lead heavy. He thinks back to Rotterdam, twenty years ago. He doesn’t recognise himself. He’d been a child, fresh out of university. He’d thrown himself into his job, which demanded attention to detail, observation. Then Marieke had come along.

  ‘Her name is Marieke Visser, and she’s causing controversy in Holland. She’s pushing for all Dutch companies to eliminate modern slavery in their supply chain. If it goes through, it will cost some businesses millions. She’s been receiving death threats and, as a courtesy, I’ve agreed to staff a PC at the house for the weekend. We’ll give it a sweep. It’s low risk.’

  She pushes a file at him and he picks it up, skimming: rape threats, Twitter trolls, death threats. And now anonymous letters telling her to stay away from a business deal with a company called Archipelago.

  The super is still talking: ‘…offering security will be good for relations. I was due to head over and shake hands, offer a reassuring word or two – show face. But,’ – she screws her face up – ‘I’ve been asked to head up some meeting this afternoon, which will run over. It’s little more than a polite hello. I know it’s not really your favourite thing.’ She glances at him, a question on her face.

  ‘Ostle House,’ he reads. ‘Archipelago? They’re the gaming company?’

  ‘Yes. They’ve given a lot of money recently to the St Albans community, particularly local schools, so it’s good PR all round.’

  It hangs in the air. He clearly can’t say no. He scrambles to think of a hospital appointment or something, anything, but he can’t grab hold of an excuse quickly enough and he can feel himself nodding.

  ‘Great. There’s a dinner invitation too. Liv might fancy it. Thanks, Maarten. I owe you one.’

  She checks her phone as it beeps. ‘The social media threats seem to come mainly from right-wing men claiming to protect the free market, but, for my money, probably just don’t like a woman with power. It’s assumed the letters come from angry business leaders. And she seems to rub people up the wrong way. You know what social media is like nowadays, you’re villainised or angelicised. No middle ground. Particularly for successful women. But she has a reputation for being prickly. Be charming.’

  He nods. ‘Archipelago – People Before Profits, right?’

  ‘Yes, and they make amazing games. They make the virtual reality one everyone is playing. My son is obsessed! And it seems they’ve signed a deal with Hollywood for some superhero VR game. We’re lucky they’re local. It’s a big press weekend.’ She smiles. ‘Hopefully a quiet weekend for you, though. Enjoy dinner!’

  The door slams behind her.

  Maarten looks at the file.

  He can still feel the rain on his skin, the anger in his mouth, and later, the guilt. It was twenty years ago and the memory of what happened with Marieke sits with him. He’d always known it would bite him at some point. But here? In St Albans? He’d thought that by leaving Rotterdam he had left it all behind. He’d thought secrets couldn’t cross the sea.

  He will need to tell Liv about Marieke and what happened. If he is going to be talking to Marieke again, he will need to tell Liv everything. It wouldn’t be fair to her not to.

  Kak, he thinks. Kak.

  3

  FILIP

  Still cursing as he thinks of the row that morning, he swears under his breath. It will look weak if she doesn’t come and he’d told her as much.

  ‘Bastard! Fucking workaholic!’ she’d screamed in the huge reception area in their apartment in Rotterdam, the chrome lights watching silently above them, highlighting his shame. He winces as he thinks of it, shrinking even further into his seat.

  ‘Kak,’ he mutters, as the car turns from the M25, heading into Hertfordshire. There is a cabinet of booze in the back of the car. He pours himself a tumbler and knocks it back, the tinkle of ice clinking as his throat burns. He can take his drink, but right now he wants it to take him.

  She had screamed at him that morning. ‘I’m not coming! Why is it always me doing what you want? Where are the dinners? The weekends away?’

  He had taken a breath, seeing the cleaner scuttle up the stairs. ‘Sophie, this is a weekend away. We said we would go. They’re expecting us. It’s a beautiful house; it’s a celebration. Please come.’

  ‘Why? Why should I come? For you to parade me round like a trophy? For me to do all your talking for you, while you disappear to work? What’s in it for me? Why is this my problem?’

  ‘Sophie, please.’ He had been able to hear the pleading in his voice and he wasn’t sure why. Was it just embarrassment? Did he really want her to come? Maybe she was right, maybe he wasn’t being fair to her. He had taken a step towards her and she had thrown her hair over her shoulder, fixed him with her gaze. ‘Why is it that everyone else recognises my success, wants my company, and my own husband doesn’t seem to care one bit? You don’t lay a finger on me unless I make the first move. You might be one of the richest men in Holland, but I am a fucking film star!’

  Under the lights – rose-gold dressing gown, blonde hair in waves – she had looked every inch the film star and he had stood silent, transported back to when he first met her. Back then, he couldn’t speak a word in her presence; a smile from her would make him hot, make him nervous. He is still nervous around her. And she is right. She is a stratospheric success; she can hold a room. He can hide in a business deal, count money. Why are they still together? Why has she not left him? He can’t hold a candle to her.

  He taps a text: Tickets booked on Eurostar, if you change your mind.

  It’s shorter than he’d like – it sounds angry? He will have to tell them she’s ill. No one will think twice probably, but the paper cut of embarrassment stings. She is a celebrity in her own right and he likes to hide behind her at these things. He’d known when he asked her to marry him that a tiny part of her charm was her ability to deflect attention from him, soak it all up for herself.

  The reply zings to his phone. I’ll think about it.

  Fuck. She knows how to deal with people and parties far better than him. He’s good at numbers, at plans. He was supposed to enjoy this weekend. He has been looking forward to it.

  The car turns down a long private drive, trees bend, scattering leaves like confetti. This setting couldn’t be more English. Or further away from the open-plan flats of Rotterdam. All these fields, with their fences and their trees. The waiting house is imposing, challenging. Nerves stir about the manners that will be expected and then he’s irritated with himself. He is providing the money. Why should he be the one on the back foot?

  There’s another car behind him. It could be the other investor, the Norway money. How should he handle it? He mustn’t seem like a pushover. He drinks again, not caring if they smell booze on his breath. It’s only a fucking dinner.

  Filip checks Twitter. Marieke has posted about the weekend. He smiles and taps out his
own post: Pleased to be attending this weekend!

  Marieke has been such a support. She’s been behind this deal from the start. Archipelago’s progressive conditions for all employees are right up her street, and it’s big money. Having her around to talk to has been such a relief. She doesn’t let people in right away, but when she does – unlike most people – she has no artifice. This makes her so easy to confide in – even about Sophie.

  Closing his eyes, he feels the emptiness underneath it all.

  That moment, months ago, like a flashback.

  The ledge had been short and the wind had rushed up, sending him off balance. He’d shaken, been frightened. It had all spanned below him and, despite the weight, the crushing weight of it all, he hadn’t been able to jump.

  There’s a pain in his head, sharp and then throbbing. A numbness, lurking beneath everything he does right now, settles in his chest.

  Each movement towards the top had lifted his load a little. The idea of throwing it all away. Lessening the grind in his head.

  But he hadn’t. He’d found himself stepping back. Terrified.

  He has everything. On the surface.

  He has a wife who men look at, greedy. But his relationship with Sophie is torture. Every eye on her is like a needle. He sees the eyes of others on him, too, thinking it must be the money she has chosen.

  And he can’t satisfy her, can’t come close. Each time is worse than the last. The inadequacy is killing him.

  The drizzle in the air wets the colours on the trees and they look brighter. Perhaps getting out of Holland will bring a relief. He checks his phone again.

  Lowering the window, he lets the damp touch his face.

  He’d seen her first on screen, watching a film in his lounge. Halfway through, there’d been a scene where she’d sat in a park under a tree and sung. Her voice… And she’d stopped in the middle, laughing at the line from the other actor. She’d worn jeans and a T-shirt, bare feet; a silver bracelet on her left wrist, her eyes brown with flecks of green, her smile the widest he’d ever seen. She’d winked at the end of the laugh and delivered a line so deadpan he’d laughed out loud at home on his couch; and he’d replayed that moment over and over. She’d been so funny, so bright. When she sang, her voice… Her voice.

  The car slows, driving over an old cattle grid. Filip pours himself another drink.

  It had been easy getting tickets to an event where she’d be. She wasn’t the headline invite. That had been a bigger star, over from England, but he’d bided his time and made a donation to the cause, so the organisers were falling over themselves.

  When she’d been introduced, his heart raced. He knew he’d flushed red, made some remark about the heat in the room. He’d felt stripped, naked.

  Everyone must have been able to see he was already hers if she wanted him. He’d been laid out for the taking.

  Following up the evening with flowers: he’d researched her favourites, yellow roses and wolfsbane, sent bunches to her home each day; he’d invited her to the theatre: the best seats. The courtship was as lavish as he dared. Nervous every time he met her, he’d allowed his status and his money to speak for him.

  After months when he’d not dared go too near her, when wanting her so much had paralysed him, she had finally touched him. He’d almost cried and she had been as calm as his breath had been quick. With even the first kiss, he’d been convinced she could see in his eyes how easy he was to take. To pluck. He’d been hers the first moment she held his gaze.

  His phone rings and Ruben’s name flashes up, his secretary.

  ‘Filip, I’ve got some bad news. Are you there yet?’

  ‘Ten minutes out,’ Filip says.

  ‘I’ve heard a rumour. There’s info coming in that suggests the Norway deal might be slightly different. The upfront investment figure of fifty million GBP is the same, but our research suggests their distribution deal is significantly better.’

  ‘Fuck.’ Filip leans his head back. The threat of social niceties recedes as his brain processes the information. ‘This is serious. I need all the details.’

  ‘I’ll look into it and call you back.’

  ‘Thanks, Ruben. If this is true, I’ll arrange a meet before we release the signatures on the contract. I’ll confront them head on. I want this, but I’m no one’s puppet.’

  ‘I’ll be in touch.’

  The phone is silent and heavy; he drops it on the black leather of the seat. The car slows.

  He pours himself another drink.

  4

  MAARTEN

  ‘Are they terrorist threats?’ Adrika asks, sitting down across the desk from Maarten.

  The station is emptying over the lunch hour. People are walking the five minutes into town for last-minute Halloween chocolates for the weekend, for a sandwich. The sun is bright through the window. Warm enough to leave a coat at the desk.

  He shakes his head. ‘They don’t think so. Here.’ He puts the file down and shakes out copies. ‘Overall, it’s a mix of threats. She’s been receiving Twitter abuse for a while; social media is bashing her. You know how vile and abusive that can be – but usually it’s non-specific and it’s ongoing. Most of the abuse directed her way is more general, or references her policies: she’s become the populist scapegoat. These letters are different. For one, they arrive at her home and they also directly reference Archipelago and this deal. Here, a few photocopies.’

  Adrika lifts three photocopies from the file. In a mash-up of cut-out newspaper letters and thick black marker pen, the orders are spelled out in clear terms. She reads:

  STEP BACK, BITCH. TAKE A MONTH OFF.

  YOU’LL REGRET IT IF NOT.

  TO THE WHORE,

  THE RED DRESS YOU WERE WEARING ON

  THURSDAY? I’LL WRAP THAT ROUND YOUR

  NECK.

  FUCKING WITCH. STAY AWAY FROM

  ARCHIPELAGO.

  ‘Are they all like this?’ she asks.

  ‘Seems so,’ Maarten says. ‘Quite vague. But vicious. Personal.’ Maarten skims the file. ‘They’ve set up a watch on her home and office in Rotterdam. They’ve no idea where they’re coming from. Her home address would be very difficult to find – and she’s careful not to share any details of her private life in the media. Working theories are that it’s a Twitter troll taking things a step too far, or someone vengeful – a jilted lover possibly, or more likely someone she’s forced out of business. She recently exposed two companies disposing of chemical waste illegally. Their businesses took a real hit from the fines.’

  ‘What a nightmare! It’s about time business was forced to be accountable: pensions disappearing, dumping of chemical waste. You’ve got to be rich to get away with it. It’s shocking. We need more people like her.’

  He thinks of Marieke. Seeing her that morning: an apparition. A ghost of Halloweens past. She’d been thinner than he remembers. Flintier. Something about her stance now had come across as defensive. The way she’d held herself, maybe? The rush of feelings had been overwhelming.

  God, what he had felt for Marieke back then had been all-consuming. He hasn’t thought of it for years, but shame stabs now.

  ‘Have you ever met her?’ Adrika asks, reading the file. ‘It says here she was in the police force in Rotterdam, years ago. Did you know her then?’

  Opening his mouth, the lie sticks behind his teeth. Instead, he says, ‘I think she might have worked there when I started.’ He touches his cheek, feeling himself colouring, and he buries his head, reaching into the drawers by his desk, pulling out his phone and looking at it.

  A missed call from Liv.

  ‘She gets a bad rep. Look. There’s a story here about her kicking off at an environmental charity event. High-profile figures had flown in from all continents to support it, and in her speech she named every single one of them and the emissions from their flight. I bet that went down well!’ Adrika grimaces. ‘Look, another story – she’s written an open letter to heads of companies detailing an
estimate of their emissions each year. And I hadn’t realised she was the one who called out that pop star who was campaigning for the environment but flew to every city in a private jet, then drove to the demonstration in a Prius! I’m not surprised she has haters.’ Adrika drops the printouts. ‘What do you want from me?’

  ‘Hopefully nothing. You and Sunny are both on this weekend – if there are any problems, I’ll call. We’ve got a couple of PCs watching the place. I think I’m basically window dressing. I’m going to the dinner tonight.’ He pulls a face.

  Adrika grins. ‘I know how you love a dinner party.’

  ‘Well, at least Liv’s looking forward to it. She’s packed the kids off to her mum’s for the weekend.’ He laughs, but it’s hollow.

  As Adrika leaves, he calls his wife. She doesn’t answer but he listens to the full length of her voicemail answer message before ringing off, as though investing this time will make confession softer, later.

  Why did he ever think leaving Rotterdam would leave it behind? He’s been a fool.

  5

  FILIP

  ‘I’ll take your bags in, sir.’ The driver heads round to the boot as Filip’s phone rings.

  ‘Sophie,’ he says.

  ‘Filip, I’m still not sure if I can come. I’ve just had Stefan on the phone. There’s a drinks thing in Amsterdam tonight; he thinks it might be a good idea if I go.’

  Unbidden, the image rises of his wife, naked, legs circling Stefan’s back, his mouth on her skin. He can’t shake it. He has no evidence. But Stefan kisses her cheek longer than he needs, every time he says hello.

  ‘You’re going out with Stefan, rather than me? Has he booked a hotel for you both over there?’

  ‘Oh fuck, Filip, I’m not sleeping with him. He’s my agent. These drinks are important, he says. Anyway, I haven’t decided.’

  There’s a silence on the line. Filip can see the doors to the house open and Ebba appears, directing the driver with the luggage. He’d forgotten how beautiful she is, and he’s hit with a flush of nerves. He lifts a hand, gestures to the phone.