by J. M. Hewitt
But he wants her in his life, and in order to do that, in order to locate her and bring her to him, he needs to go back to being the person that he was before. He needs to think like an investigator, with a once-more cold heart, all the heat in his brain, rather than a man in …in what?
Love?
7
THE DOCTOR
HOLLAND SPOOR
3.7.15 Morning
Bram Bastiaan feels like he has done an entire day’s work by the time he gets back to his office, but in reality his day is only just starting.
His work load is mostly the same, day in, day out. His girls, as his likes to think of them, visit him every two or three months for their sexual health checks and they are his main customers. Not his sole trade, he gets other patients of course, it’s not purely the prostitutes, but they make up the bulk of his business.
Bram does not employ a nurse or a receptionist or a secretary. The girls know him and they know that he knows their occupation. There is no shame for them in a job that is legal and besides, he likes to think he is a friend to these women; a confidant. Sometimes their attitudes towards him suggest otherwise, but surely deep down they do appreciate him, even if they don’t fully realise it themselves.
He glances through his diary and sees that Amber is first on his appointment list today so he sets about preparing the packs for the blood and urine samples and the swab testing kit. When the kits are all laid out ready he gets started on the labels. Chlamydia, herpes, syphilis, trich, HPV and HIV; Bram does the whole lot each and every time. He is nothing if not thorough.
On most occasions there is no drama – these girls know how to take care of themselves. For them, and Bram, it is like going to the dentist. Sometimes there may be the sexual equivalent of a cavity and a subsequent filling, but mostly it’s just a check up. He thinks of the girl who is dead, the one who left her shoes in the street as she met her fate. She was a black spot on his files, Chlamydia, if he remembers correctly. Not that it matters, an S.T.I is still an S.T.I.
He hears the small, old-fashioned bell tinkling in the outer office, the signal that someone has arrived, and he opens his office door to find Amber in the waiting area.
“Amber,” he greets her.
“Oh. Hello, Doctor Bastiaan.”
Her voice is dull and monotone, most unlike her normally cheery tone. “Is something wrong?”
Her face flushes a shade of beetroot and unwelcome tears leak immediately from her blue eyes. He stands for a moment, regarding her ice-blonde beauty, spoiled by her blotchy red face, screwed up in angst. He moves forward, hooks an arm around her shoulder and ushers her into his office, where he closes the heavy panelled oak door behind them.
“They found Gabi,” she blurts before he has even sat her down. “Dead, butchered!”
Yes, Gabi, that was her name. It had escaped him earlier. Gabi Rossi, a relative newcomer to the area and a patient he had only seen once, although that once had been enough, so it transpired.
“What happened?” he asks Amber, turning away to busy himself with the test packs, though they are already set out and waiting.
“They found her in an alley down near China Town. She’d been … skinned!” Amber breaks into tears again, her slender white fingers cover her mouth and Bram turns back to her, watches her chew at nonexistent fingernails, interested again in the detail that had captured his attention before, so much so he’d had to go look again.
“Skinned?”
She nods, brings her knees up to her chest and turns her face away, her small chest heaving with sobs that she tries unsuccessfully to stifle.
“Hmm, well I’m sure the police will clear this all up and everything will be fine.” Bram moves closer and pats Amber’s denim clad knee. “You mustn’t worry, dear, I’m sure it’s just a one off. A drug deal gone sour, perhaps?”
She removes her fingers from her mouth, shrugs off his hand and glares at him. “Gabi didn’t take drugs.”
Bram finds himself staring with distaste at the sore blighting the corner of Amber’s full lips and a feeling of frustration simmers low in his belly. He does his very best to take care of these girls, why can’t they look after themselves with the same thoughtful, caring touch as him? And in the event that something crops up, such as a cold sore, why can’t they go to the pharmacy and pick up some cream? It’s like the thrush that he identifies on so many of the girls, it’s so easily treatable, yet they ignore it, let it fester and grow, even though it must be uncomfortable for them. For the majority they are fastidious about their sexual health, but it seems that it comes at a price and they sacrifice all their other basic needs. He doesn’t understand it, but no matter how much he lectures them, few of them pay him any heed. To the girls, he’s sure he’s just the old guy who is to be tolerated who pricks them and swabs them and keeps them on the street or behind their windows.
“Come on then,” he says, withdrawing to his couch. “Let’s get this done and then you can go home and rest up.”
Seeming more sulky rather than upset now, Amber divests herself of her jeans and underwear and climbs up on to the couch.
“Feet,” Bram instructs as he snaps on his rubber gloves.
She puts her feet in the stirrups and lays back, turning her face to the wall. Bram moves deftly with his swab, recoiling a little from her and the unwashed aroma that hits him.
Silently he hands her the bottle and she vanishes into the toilet. While he waits for her return he disposes of his gloves and wanders over to the window, trying to cool his growing anger.
Amber is a nice enough girl, but honestly, knowing that someone was going to be in contact with her body today, he’d have thought the least she could do would be to take a shower, and that sore on her mouth, it’s just poor hygiene, really. Soap costs hardly anything, nothing if she takes it from a public washroom or a bar toilet. She lives with other women, they share a bathroom, he’s sure between them they could afford a bar of soap. There’s really no excuse at all.
He turns as she comes out of the bathroom and hands him her sample. He takes it gingerly between thumb and forefinger and places it next to her swab. Quickly, because he wants her gone now, he takes her blood, ignoring her when she flinches at his first failed effort to locate a vein. It makes his blood boil too, for he prides himself of withdrawing blood without leaving as much as a bruise or blemish. With a final glare she pulls down her sleeve and picks up her bag, all set to leave.
“Wait, Amber,” he says, inspiration striking, and he moves speedily around his office, grabbing one of his ‘starter packs’ and topping it up with two bars of soap and a feminine deodorant which he then passes to her. “It’s an old batch, I’d hate for it to go in the trash just because the date expires soon.”
She looks down at the bag, a flush staining her neck, and grabbing it, she walks quickly out of the office without so much as a thank you.
“Dirty bitch,” Bram hisses as he hears the outer door slam closed.
He sinks into his leather chair, clutches at the arms until his knuckles turn white and looks over at Amber’s swab and sample, waiting to be sent off.
He half hopes she’s picked up something with the attitude she had towards him today. It’s a childish thought, but he can’t pretend that he’s okay with Amber’s ways.
These girls, his girls, when will they learn? Will they ever learn?
8
ELIAN
SCHEVENINGEN
3.7.15 Late morning
It is late morning when Elian finds the energy to shower and dress. She pulls on her jeans and a plain, white T-shirt, realising belatedly that she’s either going to have to visit a launderette or buy some new clothes. She looks at the pile of washing that she’s stacked neatly on a chair in the lounge and knows she hasn’t got the strength to cart it to the launderette on Keizerstraat. She makes a mental note to ask Brigitta if she knows of one nearer, and then, remembering that she probably won’t recall the reminder later, she pulls out her not
ebook and writes ‘launderette’ underneath Brigitta’s name.
It’s a fine day when Elian exits her apartment and she pauses when she gets to the street, tips her face so she can feel the sun warming her skin. She hitches her bag on her shoulder and walks at a leisurely pace to the promenade, checking out the various shops that spill out on to the pathway. The clothes are cheap; mostly vest tops, shorts and cargo pants. Elian doesn’t care what is in fashion, she’s always stuck to her own style, and all she wants are clothes that fit and that are clean, and maybe cool if this scorching sun keeps on day after day. With a small selection of clothes in her arms she goes to the counter, not making eye contact, thankful that the shop clerk seemingly doesn’t want conversation either.
It’s on her way out of the door that the notice board catches her eye. It’s filled with items lost and found, cars or holiday flats to rent, but in the middle is an A4 piece of paper, larger than all of the others, and she reaches out and plucks the page off.
Self Defence Classes, taught by a woman and not too far away either, by the looks of the advert, in Frederikstraat in neighbouring Den Haag. Elian shoves the paper in her bag and then takes it out and slips it in her notebook, thus ensuring that she will look at it later.
As she walks along the promenade she pulls it out again, wondering if maybe she should go along now and check it out. It’s not far, and now she has done her one and only chore for today – buying new clothes – so her day is her own.
But it’s a longer walk than she anticipated with the sun beating mercilessly down on her and its after midday when she reaches Frederikstraat and the address for the gym.
When Elian sees Brigitta standing outside the entrance she’s horrified, certain for a moment that she must have wandered around aimlessly for an hour only to end up at the apartment block where they share mutual residency. Then, she takes a proper look at Brigitta, registers that she is wearing gym clothes and a towel is draped around her neck.
As Brigitta flicks her cigarette into the road she catches sight of Elian and her face lights up with seems to Elian to be a welcoming smile.
“Hey, screamer,” Brigitta calls and Elian cringes as she walks over and prepares to make conversation.
“Do you use this gym? I heard about the self defence classes, are they any good?”
Brigitta, though she has only just discarded a cigarette, taps another one out of the packet and lights up.
“Well, they’re better than nothing, you want to join up?” Brigitta narrows her eyes as she scrutinises Elian, as if assessing her ability.
Then, taking a deep drag on her cigarette, she covers the distance between her and Elian. “What the fuck happened to you, girl?”
Elian’s instinct is to walk to away from Brigitta, the gym and the self defence classes, and most of all Brigitta’s question. But as she is backing away she happens to lock eyes with her neighbour, and at that split second, she sees that no matter what secrets she tells Brigitta, there’s nothing much that could shock this girl. And it’s been such a long time since she had a friend. Even before Chernobyl, there was nobody that she was especially close to. For a bittersweet moment she reflects on Greta and Paulina, the closest she had to friends back in London and she wonders what they’re doing now. She wonders if they ever think of her.
And there’s Alex of course. But as soon as his name comes to mind it’s a real, physical pain so she banishes the memories, musing as she does often, wondering if she’ll ever be able to remember him without hurting.
“You don’t need self defence, girl,” Brigitta says, her voice pulling Elian back to the present. “You need a fucking shrink.” Brigitta smiles. “Or a drink.”
“Yeah, that last one,” Elian replies, agreeing before she can talk herself out of it.
“Let me get my stuff.” Brigitta flicks the second cigarette to the kerb and it lands near the first discarded one. “Wait here.”
Elian nods, leaning against the wall and shifting her bag to the other arm as Brigitta vanishes down the stairs leading into the gym.
Something akin to excitement runs through her but it takes her a while to identify the emotion. It seems like a long time since she has felt anything other than sorrow, regret and dread.
As she waits, a tram squeals to a stop a little further up Frederikstraat and a tight group of people, chattering together, alight. Elian, waiting with impatience now, watches the group. They are disconcerted, she can see that from where she is standing, and there’s something about the subject of their discord that makes Elian edge closer to them. It’s a guy, a man she presumed was with them, but as he pushes his way through the little throng of tourists it becomes apparent that he’s not part of their group.
With a glare at the people that held him up, he walks quickly away in the direction that Elian herself came from, towards the seafront.
Elian hadn’t realised that she had broken out into a sweat until she feels a trickle of perspiration running down between her shoulder blades.
It’s him, it’s Russian Lev. It’s the man that she came here to catch, the only remaining living person who can pay for what was done to her in Chernobyl.
Her feet move of their own accord, as if displaced from her body. All thoughts of Brigitta have vanished now as she sidesteps the tourists and tracks Lev down the road.
All the while, she’s aware that her breathing is heavy but controlled, her steps are light, her eyes are sharp; she is the very epitome of stealth.
And the hunter is now the hunted.
9
LEV
SCHEVENINGEN
3.7.15 Lunchtime
Lev strides down the street, covering ground and distance easily and swiftly. He hums a Pink Floyd song, spitting out lyrics when he remembers them, something about teachers leaving kids alone and bricks in walls. He smiles, bopping his head to the beat, gleeful at the happiness that he feels here. And he got the apartment, that magical number 1058 is now his, and in his jubilation he does a little dance move as he walks.
He knew it would be perfect as soon as that woman told him about the murders. He has thought about tracking down more information on this Monaghan. Maybe his new neighbours will have more information. Not her, the nosy neighbour, but someone else, someone more like Lev himself.
But right now, he is checking out his new territory, for if he is planning to enjoy himself here in a way that might not be seen as socially acceptable, and get it away with it, and then repeat it, it is very important that he knows every alleyway, street and towpath. He has bought a street map from a shop in Javastraat, and he will study it later, but for now he wants to get a feel of the place.
He had taken the tram as far as Frederikstraat and his plan was to make his way back to his new apartment, giving himself another glance at the outside before moving in tomorrow. Now, almost back at the beach, he swings a left on Gevers Deynotweg, and makes his way over the tramlines to his new home.
To his consternation the plump woman is hanging around at the bottom of the stairs, talking rapidly into a mobile phone. Lev changes direction, but too late, she spots him and hangs up on her call.
“Hey, you, did you take the room?” She walks slowly over to him, rocking from side to side, looking to Lev as though her weight needs momentum to reach him.
He stops, reluctantly. “Yeah, I did.”
“Oh, well, that’s good. It’s nice to make your acquaintance, neighbour.” Her smile is coquettish, Lev realises with alarm.
He makes a non-committal noise and starts to move on, but she’s still talking.
“So when are you moving in?”
“Couple of days,” he replies and this time, though she is still poised for conversation, he walks away.
“I’ll look out for you, save you a cup of sugar, sugar,” she calls, her words ending in a tinkling, high pitched laugh. “My name’s Joy.”
Don’t hold your breath, Joy, he thinks as he makes his way across the streets criss-crossed with tram lines and
lets out an involuntary shudder. She was leering at him, who does she think she is to behave like that? And Lev knows that he’ll have to be careful around Joy, her flirty behaviour could push him far enough to do something very stupid. He reminds himself of his rule, and has an uneasy feeling that he will have to keep telling himself that she’s off limits, especially for what he has in mind, though she would have the perfect body for it, all that skin …
He watches the local folk as he sits on the tram back to The Hague and is surprised by their behaviour. As soon as anyone elderly gets on the locals jump up and offer their seat. The same thing happens for women with prams or small children. Sometimes three or four people get up to offer their chair, and Lev knows that he has come to the right place. The people who live here are kind, considerate and most importantly, they are trusting.
Off the tram and back at the hotel, he muses further as he packs his bags ready to leave and move into his new home. It crosses his mind that he could walk out of here and move across town without paying his bill. But after careful consideration he dismisses the idea. He has work to do here in Holland; he does not want to be imprinted on anyone’s mind as anything other than a gentleman. He wants to fit in; outwardly he will be just like his countrymen; kind, considerate and trustworthy.
Inside, and in private, well, that will be a different Lev altogether.