by J. M. Hewitt
Brigitta whistles again, snapping Elian out of her reverie and standing a few feet away, a questioning look on her face. Elian smiles at her, resumes walking, and as she strolls along beside her new friend she knows she’s found a plan. She’ll get herself back to peak fitness – mentally and physically – and she’ll finally figure out what to do about Lev, the one who got away. Then, when it’s all over, she’ll return to Alex and she’ll tell him exactly what she wants.
And maybe, just maybe, he’ll still want her, too.
She starts to talk, wanting suddenly very much to discuss Alex with her new friend, girl to girl, like a normal young woman, but as she opens her mouth Brigitta’s mobile rings. Brigitta stares at the display and holds a finger up to Elian as she answers the phone, speaking rapidly in Dutch. Elian surveys her face as Brigitta’s voice drops to a whisper and she speaks urgently before hanging up the phone.
“Is everything okay?” Elian asks, alarmed as the colour drains from Brigitta’s face.
Brigitta shakes her head and slips her phone back into her pocket. “There’s been another murder,” she says, quietly. “They’ve found Cilla’s body.”
28
LEV
THE PIER and 1058 GEVERS DEYNOOTWEG
6.7.15 Dusk
Lev sits in the darkened apartment and stares glumly into the gloom. He’s closed the blinds and after repairing the door, he went down to the store a few streets away and bought and fitted a deadbolt. He hung around the boardwalk of the pier until evening fell and peered over the edge. The sea foamed white and grey, crashing against the wooden struts. He moved further back towards the entrance and looked at the forlorn and empty loungers. The waves here rolled kindly on the beach, dragging sand and shells back into the sea. He didn’t mind it here, after the stillness of the apartment this contrast was welcome. When the sun finally dipped beyond the horizon he spotted what he was sure was a transaction happening and he moved over to them to see what wares they were selling.
The vendor’s were young men, younger than him and English. They looked him up and down when he approached and asked them what they were selling. They seemed paranoid but at the same time unwilling to let go of a potential sale. They asked him to show them his money, which he did, and they asked him where he lived, and he told them. Now, that seems like a foolish thing to have done, but Lev was edgy and needy. The youths conferred, moving off to whisper furiously together, before returning to where he stood, tired and weary, and eventually they agreed that he could purchase from them. By the time he returned to the apartment with some good crystal and a nice, fat, ready-made blunt, he was almost too tired to imbibe his little haul and he recalled with fondness how much easier everything seemed to be back in Chernobyl.
He thinks about Cilla, rubs his head and lets out a little noise that could be anguish. He’s not sure how he feels, and he doesn’t know how the police came to be at his door. Someone pointed them in his direction, but who? He hardly knows anybody here in Scheveningen. There’s Joy, of course, the overly friendly neighbour who he has so far been successful in avoiding. And Roland, another man on his block, someone who appears slow and unyielding, but also somebody who’s past can’t be ignored. After all, Roland done time for the part he played in the murders that occurred right here in this very apartment. How innocent is he, despite his childlike demeanour?
Lev struggles up from the couch and makes his way into the bathroom. Instead of using the facilities however, he stares at the wall. The smooth plaster shows no sign of what happened here fifteen years ago. He looks longingly at the ash from the meth he smoked and wishes he had got more. Belatedly he remembers the blunt, the large, weed filled cigar he bought and he darts into the living room to pick it up, lights it, inhales and wanders back into the bathroom.
Combined with the methamphetamine the blunt hits the spot and he sits down heavily on the closed toilet lid.
His thoughts grow muddy as he wonders what happened here, all those years ago? Did it actually happen, or is it a foresight on Lev’s behalf? He rests his head on his chest, the half-smoked stogie hanging limp in his hand.
When he wakes the room is completely shrouded in darkness. The cigar has gone out and he fumbles for his lighter, sparking it up, inhaling deeply again. He sits for a long time, the only light the red glowing top of the blunt. Half formed thoughts creep around his mind and in the darkness he fancies he can see the splintered wood of the panelled walls and the blood spatter pattern on the linoleum that covers the floor.
He snoozes but only for minutes at a time and then the fog lifts to reveal what seems to Lev to be a very real clarity. He knows that they are coming for him. And later, probably when he doesn’t pay his rent he will be discovered. His body will be burnt and there will once more be bullet holes in the wall. His essence will be elsewhere, someone hanging out with David, Vinnie and Miles. They will be four faceless, soulless entities, forever travelling the circles of hell.
A whimper escapes Lev, a strangled cry that turns into a hoarse roar and he chews anxiously on the stump of the cigar. Maybe he should leave here and return to his forest. At least then he’ll be left alone.
Then he remembers Fat Arnja and it strikes him that he can’t go back there, either. His mind wanders, he recalls the girl, the youth that Niko had in his caravan, the one with the creamy milk chocolate skin and the eyes that made him think of Afia. She’ll be six feet under now and Afia won’t be far behind her, in fact, Lev is surprised that Afia has lasted until now, given the life that she chose. And she managed to keep herself together far better than other addicts he had known. Sometimes she’d be off the brown stuff for months at a time, but it was always there, or rather Niko was always there to provide what she needed to make her meek and mild again. It doesn’t occur to him that it’s a waste of a life because back home, the way things were, that was life.
The way things were.
29
ROLAND
11th March 2000
I moved out of home and in with Mark Braith. This didn't happen on one particular day, rather, it was just decided one day that I spent more time there than I did at my mother’s. For the first time ever I didn’t tell my mother where I was going, but I called her every few days to let her know I was okay. She would cry down the telephone line, pleading with me to come home. I listened patiently, but always hung up when she began to shout at me.
It was an odd set up; we were not friends, Mark and I. I don't think he had friends. He had acquaintances and subordinates. Ha, I bet those are two words you didn't think I knew, right? That's the trouble, people think I'm as dumb on the inside as I look, but I'm not, nobody ever listens to me talking long enough for me to prove them wrong.
But I digress, so I moved in with Mark. Nothing really changed, except when I'd finished working I sat down in his chair instead of going home to my mother’s. We would crack open a beer and watch some television, Mark would sit next to me, sometimes he would put his arm across the back of the sofa and I'd fall asleep to the touch of his hand on the back of my neck. It was surprisingly gentle, his touch, not a rough manly pat or slap that I was used to from my Irish friends. At some point in the night he would go off to his bed and I would remain on the sofa. I never saw him with any other house guests, not until about two weeks after I'd moved in.
I came home late, around 11pm, from doing a drop at the Spoor. The house was in darkness, but I saw the small lamp on in the lounge and I barrelled in to give Mark his money.
There was a guy on the couch and Mark was stood in front of him, leaning forward, looking intently at the strange man.
“Sorry, I didn't realise …” I paused; something was off. I meant to reverse out of the room, but my feet kept moving forward until I was stood next to Mark.
“What's wrong with him?” I whispered.
Mark didn't answer, so I too leant forward and peered at the man.
He was young, blonde, tanned and muscled. He looked like a surfer. He was everything
I wanted to be, and never would be.
But his gaze was blank, he stared at a fixed point on the wall behind us, and a thin ladder of saliva hung from his Cupids bow lip.
Then I saw the blood, a tiny trickle that made its way down the left side of his face. I moved further around; saw what looked like a bullet hole above and behind his ear.
“You shot him?”
Mark straightened up and looked at me and I shrank back.
“Of course I didn't fucking shoot him,” he snapped. “What do you take me for?”
“But … but, his head …”
Mark smiled, suddenly and he drew me forward, closer to the thing on the sofa. “I'm trying something,” he said, and gestured to the side table.
I looked over at the small table. I saw a drill, a syringe, three metal dishes and a wad of bloodied tissue.
“I'm trying to see if I can keep someone subdued but alive, compliant, if you will.”
His tone was conversational, horribly out of keeping with the way he wiped at his fingers – which I saw now were stained with blood – with one of the tissues.
“Why?” My voice was a plaintive whine, I could hear it, but I couldn't stop it.
He didn't reply and briefly I thought about leaving the room and going quietly into the kitchen where there wasn't a still, almost-dead thing. But I was curious, it was almost like being back at the Halel chicken factory again. A sick fascination.
“What's his name?”
“What do you want it to be?” Mark roared with laughter at his own joke. I'd never seen him even show his teeth when he smiled before, let alone throw his head back and laugh hard.
I blinked, averted my eyes a little so I wasn't looking straight at the sickly thing.
“His name is Smith,” Mark said, quieter now as he studied me.
I nodded, tried for a smile and held out the envelope of money that I'd got from the drop.
Trying for normality, still with my lips peeled back in a macabre grin, I left the room.
30
ALEX
EN ROUTE TO AMSTERDAM
8.7.15 Late at night
Alex chooses to fly to Amsterdam and from Schipnol he plans to take the train directly to Scheveningen. Now, sitting on board whilst they prepare for take-off, he can’t help but glance at the empty seat beside him. On the return flight, Ellie will be next to him. There are no what ifs; there simply is no other alternative. And to distract himself from thoughts of her he runs through a list in his head, troubled that he left so quickly he may have forgotten something.
He had hung up as soon as he heard the hesitation in that police inspector’s voice. Alex knows how to read people, most of his career is based on sense rather than his ability as a detective. And that pause, as soon as he had spoken Lev’s name, it told him all he needed to know. So confident was Alex he didn’t even stop to consider that the delay in answering may have been based on something else.
He had gone on Trip Advisor first, automatically hovered over the Hyatt Hotel that was located in The Hague. He’d hesitated, instantly transported back a month prior in Kiev as he remembered Elian’s words when he checked them into the Hyatt there. She had been scornful, commenting on how one could never really know the true culture of a place staying somewhere like that. He had moved on, scrolling down the screen. He’d glanced at the one that she had made a note of, the Bella Vista, but had finally decided on The Carlton Beach with a sea facing room. He was prepared to change for Ellie, hell, he had already changed for her, but he wasn’t going to lose his identity altogether. So The Carlton Beach it was, quoted as being a four star luxury accommodation. It had a gym and a spa and a restaurant called Smugglers’ Grille. He’d perused the menu, forgetting for a moment that this was anything but a holiday and then, when he remembered, comforting himself that once he had Elian, they could stay on if they liked it, and then it would be a holiday. Four stars were enough for him, but barely. It would still be too much for her, but then, isn’t compromise not the very epicentre of relationships?
Once the room was booked Alex had called Sol and instructed him to hand the DNA evidence to one of the many police that were still milling around Chernobyl. In turn, they were under instructions to courier it to Luke in the UK, who would perform the tests straight away. One of the last items on Alex’s agenda had been to arrange for Elian’s DNA to be made available to Luke. The police had some from the doctor’s who had tended to her in Pripyat, and Alex was happy he wouldn’t have to make the transfer of the product. He wasn’t sure if he could have carried all that remained of her – for the moment – to Luke in a plastic bag.
Before the plane takes off he sneaks his phone out of his pocket and loads the internet app. The Carlton Beach isn’t far from the police station where this Erik Fons is located, only twenty minutes by tram. Ten minutes in a taxi, which Alex knows will be the more likely form of transportation that he will take.
He smiles, thinks of Elian’s disapproving look and concedes; maybe he will get a tram after all. For her.
While he has his phone out, he types Lev’s name into the search engine. Nothing comes up, it didn’t yesterday either or the day before. He had called Sol again, asked him about the name Lev. It was a popular name, but Sol didn’t know of anyone called that in the area. Sol had been more concerned about the constant police and military presence in the area, asking Alex how long they were going to be there, when their quiet little town could go back to normal and did Alex think they would try to turf the remaining residents out of Chernobyl? Alex had no answers for him, and now, he wonders how Sol and Klim and Sissy and the handful of others who remained in Chernobyl would do elsewhere. Sissy and Sol would survive; after all they’d already been Londoners during their lifetimes. But Klim, even though he’d only stayed in the wastelands in the hope that Afia would return to him one day, he wouldn’t do very well in civilisation. As for the Babushka’s, the ancient women who lived from the earth and were all each other had, there was no chance of them leaving. Even if they were bodily carried out of town, they would find a way to sneak back. After all, they had already done that once.
They’re a strange bunch, but sometimes, since returning back to England, Alex feels an odd pang for their way of life. He hopes that one day he’ll see them again and for Ellie’s sake, he hopes she does too.
As the engines start up Alex switches his phone to plane mode and looks out of the window. His first port of call will be the police station and this Erik Fons. There was a brittle edge to Fons’ voice that reminded Alex a little of himself. He hopes the man will be receptive and who knows, perhaps they can end up helping each other.
As the plane rolls down the runway a little bit of the old Alex Harvey comes back.
Erik Fons will help him. Alex will see to it that he will.
31
NAOMI WILSON
THE EIGHT DISTRICTS
8.7.15 Afternoon
Naomi Wilson is well known around the eight districts of Den Haag as well as Amsterdam and Rotterdam. More importantly, she is well liked, by RLD workers, punters and the authorities. Her role isn’t too dissimilar to that of Bram Bastiaan, but maybe because she’s a woman, or perhaps because she’s not at all creepy or judgemental, she is far more popular than the doctor.
Her work is freelance, but supported by the Dutch Healthcare system. She has her own schedule and she travels around the different areas, usually staying in each for three days at a time. The RLD’s in Rotterdam and Amsterdam have a higher volume of healthcare officials, so Naomi’s stay there is usually just one day in each place. Out of every month she is away from home for twenty-six days and during those days away she is not just a nurse, but a counsellor, mother-figure, occasional mediator, peacekeeper and friend.
It’s been her job since she came here after graduating nursing college six years ago. Then, she was wide-eyed and curious, wary of putting a foot wrong or saying the wrong thing. To counter-balance, she ended up not saying very much of anything
. Her customers; the girls, their clients and the police and other medical staff, misconstrued this and somehow, over the years, she got a reputation for being a good listening ear. And with this she discovered she could use it for the greater good; she’d receive information on drug pushers or pimps who were over-stepping their territory, bad deals, bad men, bad news. Now, at thirty-years-old, she’s the lynchpin that keeps the society from falling apart. It’s a big responsibility but she’s naturally good at it. Years ago, five years in fact, when she first started dating Erik Fons, she thought she might lose something by getting with him, but if anything, Erik has been a boost in her popularity. Known across Den Haag and the surrounding areas as a fair and straight up cop, Erik only compliments and never hinders her.
Together they are seen as the perfect couple, the one constant in an unstable world. It makes it a huge and impassable barrier now that the work they have put in over the years to live up to their approachable and seemingly idealist existence, is about to come crashing down.
She’s on the way home for her monthly visit but she’s pulled over and parked the car up after crossing the last dam between Rotterdam and Delft. She glances at her reflection in the rear view mirror, noting that she’s even paler than usual, apart from two spots of colour high in her cheekbones. Her skin is covered in a thin sheen of sweat and angrily, she angles the mirror away, sitting still for a moment before unlocking the door and pushing it open with her foot. She gets out of the old blue Mondeo and slamming the door, she walks past the graffiti-stricken concrete, down the verge and onto the Zwethpad footpath. She follows the path until it opens up to the fields and there she pauses, scanning the horizons for answers that won’t be found here. These fields are green now, the first bloom of the poppy is over, but in September they’ll be back for a second season, which is more than she can say for herself.