by Rachael Blok
19
MAARTEN
Maarten can’t see Marieke.
Has something happened?
He thinks of the letters, of the threats. Looking to the door, the PC hasn’t come in, or called him.
Excusing himself from Lois, he makes his way across the room. The applause from the table is loud and there are shouts for an encore. More champagne appears in answer to Aksel calling for a toast to Sophie. The room swims with heat, with energy.
Marieke is standing in the doorway, not clapping, but holding the wall with one hand. Her chin is lifted, and he recognises a look in her eyes but can’t quite place it: scorn?
‘OK?’ he asks quietly. ‘Has something happened? Are there more threats?’ Lois is clapping nearby and he sees her look, her face a question mark. He tries to answer in a smile, calming concern.
In an unexpected move, which feels both familiar and also so horribly like a statement of intimacy that he was attempting to avoid, Marieke takes his hand and leads him from the room.
Glancing at Liv, who raises her eyebrows, he mouths ‘Back in a sec’; he knows this is a step too far and, as soon as he is able, he slips his hand from Marieke’s and steps beside her, walking down the corridor.
In her other hand, Marieke carries her wine glass, and she comes to an abrupt halt then veers to the right, ducking into a smaller room with a sofa and a low coffee table.
Books line the walls, and there is a fire burning in a huge stone fireplace at the front of the room. There is a more muted feel to the furnishings. The sofas are darker, the rugs traditional. Candles are lit, even in here, and Marieke sinks down into the deep plush of the green velvet sofa, indicating he should do the same.
She takes a long drink of wine, gazing at the fire, slightly past Maarten.
She is very close. Her face is drawn.
‘Has something happened?’ he asks again, thinking he should be checking outside. She places her hand on his knee, to steady herself, and sits up.
‘No. Nothing like that. I am just exhausted, Maart. I’m exhausted; I’m exhausted with the fighting – trying to tackle a business community who won’t listen. And even tonight. We’ve got a fucking film star rocking up in a dress that cost thousands, who spends her life demanding first-class seats while there are children in the DRC digging out cobalt so she can fly and stare at her phone.’
He sits quietly. She drinks more wine. ‘You know the shirt you’re wearing will be made by someone paid less than a dollar a day? In a factory that could catch fire at any moment? The average cheap garment bought on the UK high street is worn seven times. Seven times. That’s it! I want the world to be different. If not for us, then for our kids.’
She lies back into the cushions of the deep sofa, kicks off her shoes and puts her feet up on the coffee table. Her wine glass is empty.
‘Is that booze over there?’ she asks, gesturing to a side table where crystal decanters sit, filled and ready.
He nods, pouring her a drink in the heavy glass, the liquid, like peat, sloshing and swirling. It chimes when he puts it down on the table. She drains half.
‘This is what’s bothering you tonight?’ he asks. He’s surprised. She might be tired of a fight, but he doubts she’d let it interfere with an evening off.
She laughs, looking at him. ‘You know me, Maart; what do you think?’
Smiling, he sits back too, crosses one leg over the other. He tells himself that his brief is her safety. It would be unprofessional not to listen to what she has to say.
‘I think there’s something else going on. But you don’t have to tell me what it’s about.’
She sips at the drink. ‘You’re not having one?’
‘No, on duty.’
‘Ever the policeman,’ she says, pulling a face.
Not ever, he thinks. Is Marieke also thinking about the last night they saw each other? He can’t face bringing it up. Shame still burns.
‘Well, I like your wife. She’s clever. And funny. You married well. Strange how things turn out.’
He nods. ‘I got lucky,’ he says. ‘Thanks for…’
She waves her hand. ‘History. It’s all history.’ She shrugs. ‘Aren’t you going to ask about me?’
‘I think,’ he says, lifting his feet on to the table, matching her, leaning back. ‘I think you’re about to tell me.’
There is a pattering of rain on the window. It’s light, but it adds a soporific feel to an already heavy room. The fire dances upwards in the grate; Maarten looks at the clock on the wall. It’s almost 10.30 p.m. and dessert had been waiting to be served. He can hear singing from the dining room and he realises Sophie must be doing an encore.
‘What should we do,’ Marieke says, staring at her glass, swilling the peat-brown liquid, ‘about men who are such absolute shits?’
20
LOIS
Sophie’s second song is just ending as the tray appears at Lois’s side. One of the serving staff hired for the evening proffers it to her: a letter.
‘This was found on the doormat. It’s not addressed.’
‘Do I need to look at it now?’ Lois asks. The guests are slowly sitting. Spirits and coffee are being poured.
‘I’m sorry, miss, it’s just we were briefed by Mr Bari that any letters that arrived should be taken straight to DCI Jansen, but we can’t find him. I’m sorry, I just thought…’ The girl – she can’t be much more than sixteen – looks confused and Lois is cross with herself; her tone had been sharper than she’d meant it to be. She’s tired.
‘No, I’m sorry. You’ve done exactly the right thing. Thank you.’
Lois lifts the letter and the girl disappears. Everyone is eating and Maarten isn’t there. She looks round the table for Marieke, but she’s missing too.
She taps the envelope lightly in her palm. It’s not addressed to anyone – probably just a dropped envelope, maybe a receipt, a catering bill. There’s no point leaving everyone and causing a scene, so she lifts it to open, hesitating.
Deciding quickly, she runs her finger along the seal and slides out the thin letter inside.
Seeing the paper, even just folded, with its thick black marker pen glaring through the folds, she knows immediately she’s made the wrong call.
21
IQBAL
The dessert – luckily intended to be served cold, it had sat around for so long – has disappeared. The music has stopped, but the chatter has resumed with a vibrancy coloured with alcohol. Few are touching the coffee.
Iqbal had seen Lois yawn before she’d left the room, and he suppresses one himself.
He sits next to Richard. ‘Tell me more about your visit to Dhaka,’ he says, and Richard, who has clearly been drinking wine, his teeth purple, tells him of a business trip out there.
‘It was my first time. I was in one of the good hotels before that roof fell down – horrific business. And you said you still lived there then? You lived in Savar, where lots of the factories are based?’
Iqbal nods, not saying all the words that could never come close to describing how he’d felt back then, how he’d been living.
‘I read up on the history a bit when I was there. Let me tell you, Bangladesh has a turbulent history, and had a rough deal from the West. I read an article about the three million Bengalis who died of starvation during the Second World War. Bloody hell!’
Iqbal nods.
‘Christ, Iqbal.’ He shakes his head. ‘Did you know the rivers behind the factories run coloured, depending on the dye in the fabrics that week? Red, blue… Leaking in and poisoning the water? It’s a crime, what industry does!’
Iqbal drinks from his water glass, nodding. Richard carries on, telling him as though he doesn’t know. Hasn’t lived it.
‘What kind of business were you there for?’ Iqbal pushes.
Richard’s face clouds with confusion, his brow wrinkling with the effort of remembering details. ‘I was there for a—’
He stops, turning left as Sa
rah laughs. His grey hair is thinning on top; tiny lines deepen across his brow. Sarah is laughing as Aksel lifts a bottle, refilling her glass.
Richard watches them, quickly tense.
‘That man is all over the women in this room,’ he says, then seems to remember where he is, shakes his head. ‘Sorry, I’ve had too much to drink.’
‘Did you like it? Dhaka?’ Iqbal asks. But Richard is watching Aksel talk to his wife.
Marieke and the police officer have disappeared somewhere.
Filip is barely holding himself upright. He leans on the officer’s wife, occasionally looking at Sophie like she’s standing on a stage a million miles away.
The clock reads almost 11.30 p.m. and, at some point, this night must end.
Aksel clicks his fingers in Iqbal’s direction and, without looking at him, calls for more champagne.
Iqbal deliberately does not see.
Ebba walks towards Aksel, speaking quietly, and he shakes his head, holds up five fingers. Ebba colours pink, sits to talk to Sophie.
Iqbal checks his email to see if Obaidur has responded yet. He asked him for more details – what did the man look like?
But nothing yet.
Richard, Filip or Aksel. One of these men has placed Archipelago in danger. But which one?
22
LOIS
Sliding her chair back, Lois smiles at the table in case anyone sees her leave; she doesn’t want to cause alarm.
Filip and Liv are giggling like children; Filip has raised a spoon to his face and is attempting to hang it off his nose. Sarah and Richard have moved around to sit next to each other, and Richard is leaning over to kiss his wife. Sarah looks like a teenager.
Iqbal had been speaking with Richard only five minutes ago. Where is he?
Ebba doesn’t look too happy. She’d been eating and glancing at Aksel every few minutes for the past half an hour. She’d mouthed ‘11.30’ at him.
Where are they going? Why? Ebba nods to him again. They’re off somewhere together in a minute and Lois’s stomach is in knots.
She exits the room and, after asking a couple of servers, heads to the snug to find Maarten.
Knocking before she enters – because it’s that kind of night – she finds Maarten and Marieke on the low sofa, laughing, and Marieke holds a whisky tumbler in her hand.
‘Sorry to interrupt.’
‘Please, come and sit down,’ Marieke says, lifting her bare feet from the coffee table. ‘I’m sorry, I’ve made myself more at home in your house than should be deemed polite.’
Maarten has sat up straighter and Lois sees his eyes focus on the letter in her hand. He raises his eyebrows.
Nodding, she hands it to him, without saying a word, and then sinks into the armchair on the other side of the table, near the bookcase with her books on gaming and Ebba’s on gardening.
No one speaks. The heavy darkness of the night has crept in, creeps still. Marieke takes a slug of whisky and shakes her shoulders back, like she’s bracing herself for impact.
Maarten puts on gloves from his pocket and opens the letter. He reads it silently, then stands, pulling out his phone.
‘Stay here, both of you.’
‘What does it say?’ Marieke asks.
But Maarten is heading towards the door. He pulls it open, then pauses, and seems to change his mind. Looking back, he shakes his head.
‘Here. If you’re sure you want to read it.’ He holds the letter in view of Marieke, who doesn’t touch it. Lois can’t pull her eyes from the paper, both wanting to know, and not wanting to know.
The door closes behind him, and Marieke leans back, resting her head on the sofa.
Lois lifts the glass from her fingers and takes it for a refill.
‘You need another one of these,’ she says.
The clock chimes in the hallway. A log on the fire collapses. Noise from the dining room rumbles.
Neither speaks. They wait.
23
FILIP
There is coffee on the table and Filip drinks it like it’s water: hot and black. It scalds his tongue and he prays for some clarity to arrive, in this stifling room, where all he can do is stare at Sophie and think of Marieke.
‘Are you OK?’ Liv asks.
His plate is empty and he tries to remember what dessert had been. There’s a creamy taste on his tongue and a burst of acid reflux takes over.
‘Yes. I’m just too drunk. Far too drunk.’ Part of him is grateful. He’s sick of making decisions. He’s too drunk to talk to either woman right now. As a delaying tactic, it’s gold.
‘Want me to help you find your room?’ Liv asks.
Drinking more coffee, he nods. ‘I think my room is a good idea. But I can get there on my own. Would you mind…’ He burps, and Liv bites her lip, like she’s trying to hold in a laugh.
But it escapes anyway, and he smiles. ‘I’m pleased you’re finding it funny.’
‘Do you know how long it is since I’ve been this pissed?’ she says, lifting the Amaretto that sits next to her coffee. ‘About a thousand years. I’ll feel like absolute shit tomorrow, but I’m loving tonight. I’ve just been to ask your wife for a selfie. Look.’ She thrusts out the phone and there’s a photo of Sophie staring back at him, smiling. He looks across the table. She’s talking to Aksel. Again.
‘I thought, why not? When else am I going to meet a film star? My girls will go bananas!’
‘Want one with me?’ he offers, the acid in his mouth making him feel nauseous.
‘Hell yes!’ she says, and they lean their heads together, grinning.
Filip is aware he can only really see through one eye. His head spins. He peers at the phone, not really making anything out.
‘I think I’ll leave now,’ he says, aiming for some elegance, rising and steadying himself on the table.
‘Let me at least tell Sophie,’ Liv says, calling, ‘Sophie! Filip’s off to bed!’
Filip watches Aksel laugh into his plate at this and he feels strangely protective of Liv, who had sounded like his mum, calling a friend over to play.
But Aksel rises, crossing to Ebba. They both leave, and Filip feels exhausted with relief.
‘He’s a mean one, that one,’ he says to Liv, trying to whisper. ‘You ignore him. You and Maarten must come and stay in my apartment in Rotterdam! Come soon and bring your kids. Come and be my guests.’
Feeling wildly generous and warm-spirited, Filip hugs Liv and an arm appears to his right, which he takes without really looking.
‘Goodnight, Liv. It’s been such a pleasure!’
It’s only after a few steps that he sees it’s Sophie who is helping him out of the room.
‘Why are you helping me?’ he asks, wondering which of the three doors he sees they should walk though.
‘Filip, why wouldn’t I help you?’
They move through the door frame, which he only bangs into once, and he feels proud of himself for not falling. He looks at her, carefully.
‘But you were talking to Aksel. I don’t mind, you know, if you want to go back to him.’ As warm as his feelings were for Liv, his generosity of spirit suddenly knows no bounds for Sophie. He grabs hold of her arm, leaning into her. His whisper intimate, soft.
‘I know you’re not really attracted to me, Soph,’ he says, ‘not really.’
She goes to speak and he raises a hand. ‘No, stop, let me say it. I’m not sure I’ve ever been this drunk, and if I’m going to say it, I may as well say it now.’
Beginning again, he tries to look into her eyes. Her beautiful eyes. ‘You have such beautiful eyes,’ he says. ‘I know you married me for my money. I get it. I’ll never be enough. Not really. But it’s OK. I’ve accepted it. You can leave me. I won’t make a fight. Will you leave me for your agent?’ He frowns, thinking of this. ‘I wouldn’t like that. Not him. Or even Aksel – not him either.’ He leans in, confiding. ‘Lois thinks there’s something going on between him and Ebba. And I think Aksel’s ripping
me off. So not Aksel. I hope he doesn’t hurt Ebba. You know their father’s business collapsed? There was some history there, with Aksel and their father.’ He mulls, tilting to the left, thinking about the connections.
Sophie squeezes his hand, opens her mouth to speak, but he continues. ‘Not Aksel, but someone young. Someone beautiful. Like you. Someone who sings like you. You know, when you sing, my heart explodes.’ He waves a hand in the air, slowly drawing an arc, thinking of the beauty of her voice. ‘It explodes like a dying star, into millions of pieces.’
The hallway is quite dark, lit with candles that line the passageway. He looks at the imaginary star he’s drawn with his hand, still thinking of the poetry of the image.
Sophie has tears on her face.
Serving staff scuttle past, heads down.
‘Oh no, don’t cry!’ he says. ‘I was trying to be kind.’
‘Filip,’ she says, and he pats her on the cheek, thinking that she really is the most beautiful thing he has ever seen. Her cheeks are wet.
‘Let’s get some air,’ she says.
She leads him towards the heavy doors that open on to the garden, where the moon has come out, casting Halloween shadows.
The hall clock chimes twelve.
24
MAARTEN
‘Did you see anyone here? Anyone?’
The serving staff are assembled in the kitchen. It’s gone midnight and they’re due to head home soon. They stand, all the range from sullen to terrified. The lights are bright in here and he squints under the glare.
‘No one’s going anywhere until I get to the bottom of this, and I’m asking you all first,’ he says, staring hard. ‘Someone must have seen something.’ He casts his eye around. He looks for a tell.
One of the women at the front of the group runs her hands down her white apron. Her hair is twisted up into a topknot and she cocks her head at Maarten.