Chrysalis

by Jeremy Welch

  “Did you live the life for two?”

  Umuntu hesitated before replying.

  “No, Sebastian, I didn’t, I lived my own life.”

  Sebastian walked back to the Tulp via the street that Irena worked in. The pimps in their positions, hers a youth, younger than her and already dehumanised. The thought of “going to work” for Irena was not the tube ride to the City and warmth of an office block cocooned in health and safety regulations. Her co-workers were not the co-operative grumble of people civilised by compromise for eight hours a day. Her co-worker was the pimp, lounging against the wall smoking cigarettes and keeping his new white trainers clean. His designer jeans with a logo proclaiming their cost. All of these bought by Irena. He felt a swell of anger and walked towards the pimp. His gait was firm and his hands sweating. He was going to do it, he was going to drive his fist into that pimpled face. It wouldn’t be just once, he would pound the bastard. He would pound him for her, for the man in the Congo, for him, for the thugs in the park. This bastard had it coming. His pace quickened. He didn’t feel the balm of the evening, didn’t see the guide leading the crocodile of spectators on their tour of the sex district, just the bloodied face of the pimp. His fist clenched as he got nearer, he was ready, it would start with one swing to the bridge of the nose, breaking it, then an upper cut to the nostrils driving the nasal bone into his brain. His army training had not been in vain.

  He heard the screech of a coin on glass, not the tapping to attract business. This was a piercing screech of the coin being dragged down the glass of the door. She was looking at him. Her body danced, her hair bounced but her eyes were wide registering fear. The door of her cabin opened wide enough for her hand to reach out and grab his.

  “Want to party, big boy?” Irena’s hand was sweaty on his forearm. Her eyes pleading, her voice hissing and urgent. “Lean into the doorway and pretend you’re negotiating.” His fingers unwound from the clench. “What the fuck are you doing?”

  He felt the sweat on his back cool. The adrenaline dissipated and he felt his hand shake; he closed it back into a fist to stop it. The pimp looked over, business as usual.

  “Do you know what they will do to you? To me?” she said through a smile for all to see. “Have you any fucking idea?” Her eyebrows rose, suggesting delights for him if he came inside. “Now go away! I don’t need your help. Please, Sebastian, go!” She shrugged her shoulders as if another negotiation had failed. Sebastian let his arm fall to his side. He turned to walk away. The pimp indifferent to the failed negotiations, he knew that there would be another paying customer soon enough. He could have been thinking of the watch he had seen, the one with the gold wristband and the face shining with cut stones. He would have that soon; not long until she had earned it for him.

  2

  Sebastian hadn’t obeyed her pleading. Daily, but now at night and late in the cover of darkness, he walked past her. He couldn’t see the details as he was on the other side of the canal. But he could see her still there, still working. If he could at least see his ward she would be alright; not quite living but alive at least. He had convinced himself that it would be so. If he gave up the vigil something would happen; they would move her and she would be lost forever; it would be his fault. As a child on his way to school he knew that if he stood on the cracks of the paving stones his parents would die in a car crash. He did once and they didn’t. But this time it was different.

  The smell of cigar smoke filled his nostrils. He had been walking back to the Tulp having completed his sentry duty. The smell rich and suggestive of post-prandial conviviality, the smell of club land and fireside chats accompanied by shared happy memories. Perhaps a glass of brandy to ease into the early hours of the morning.

  “You know you can shag your way round the world in this hundred square metres of porn. First fuck a European and last an Asian, all in less than one hour.” The voice was unmistakable, the man in charge, the one they were following.

  Sebastian stopped and watched. Three men in suits, all tieless and one with his shirt tail hanging out below his jacket. The penguin man swayed with each step and the toecap of his shoe caught in the cracks of the cobbles making him lurch forward two paces before resuming the motion of a tree in a heavy breeze. The leader at the front had his jacket slung over his shoulder, his face invisible in a cloud of smoke and the pinstripes of his trousers not parallel but parabolic. His ample girth counterbalancing his enormous buttocks as they moved like pistons designed by Brunel. Sebastian recognised that arse.

  “Yeah right, Darren,” the penguin slurred. The third man, sweating from dinner excess, leered into one of the windows.

  “Wanna good time, darling? How much you gonna pay us to fuck you?” The other two laughed coarsely.

  She dealt with them with dignity; her curtain closed. It surprised the trio.

  “Stupid bitch,” he shouted at the curtain. “I wouldn’t touch her with yours.” The penguin pointed at Darren’s groin.

  The sweating man was younger; Sebastian didn’t recognise him. He must have joined since his departure and knowing Darren he was used to bolster his ego and carry his bags on business trips. Someone to marvel at his duplicity in meetings, emulate and continue that trait.

  “You ever been tempted?” the youth said as he wiped the film of sweat from his forehead, just to make sure it didn’t fall into his eyes and blur his vision. As they walked his head moved side to side like a man watching a passing train; too much to see and unable to focus on any particular girl, each one might just be better than the last.

  “You kidding? They’re all fucking slags here. Look at them, they’ve had more pricks than a dartboard. Touch them and you’ll get itchy balls tomorrow.”

  The other two laughed, but without conviction. Maybe if they chose carefully they wouldn’t wake up with itchy balls.

  “Let’s go back to the hotel for a nightcap,” Darren suggested; he was more sober than the other two. The copiousness of client entertainment not enough to affect his balance.

  “One more for the road before we meet with those tossers again from NMH Bank tomorrow.”

  Sebastian hated him when he had had to work with him, and he hated him more now. He knew where they were staying; the firm always put up the senior employees at the Prinsengracht Hotel on the canal of the same name. It was a distance of only a kilometre but worlds apart. There were no negotiations to enter the hotel; there the door was opened by a liveried man in tails accompanied by obsequious smiles. Darren would be known by name as he used the company’s money to overly tip. The doorman knew the type and knew how to keep the free money flowing; he would know his name and use it often.

  Sebastian felt like a ghost watching his past. The process of business: take the client out, create a transient friendship bonded over company-expensed wine. Always order the food and wine from the bottom right of the menu. Do it without knowledge but with confidence. That would show them how successful you were, eyes never looking at anything but the most expensive, nothing but the best for you, my new friend. You were successful and that’s why the company let you spend what you liked. That’s why the client needed to do business with you; you were a big swinger, a man that made things happen. You were important, vital. He knew what would happen next but shadowed them to the hotel hoping something would befall them; a mugging would be pleasing.

  “Good evening, Mr Denton, I hope you had a pleasant one.”

  The doorman opened the door of the hotel as he spoke. Darren dropped his cigar butt on the pavement at the base of the outside ashtray.

  “Yeah, it was fucking great. Great city Amsterdam, if you know what I mean, Dave.”

  He gave him a manly wink and pressed a twenty-euro note into the doorman’s hand. The doorman slipped the note quickly into his pocket and looked at the nametag on his chest; in black lettering on a gold background it said Stephen in capital letters. He smiled as Da
rren pushed past a departing Japanese couple. The smile vanished with the arrival of Darren’s back.

  Sebastian knew what would happen next. The trio would retreat to the rear bar that overlooked the Keizersgracht canal, two drunk and begrudging, one commanding.

  Sebastian retraced his steps to the corner and walked along Keizersgracht for a hundred metres. He could now see into the bar. He wasn’t sure why he was looking; perhaps it was disbelief at the life he used to lead. No, he knew what it was: he was still hoping there would be an incident, something to damage the ego of Darren. A fatal choke on an ice cube would be pleasant to watch.

  Darren melted over the bar stool and waved at the black-skinned barman, pushed the three poured whiskies away and pointed aggressively at a gold-label bottle on the top shelf. That’s where they kept the expensive stuff; Darren knew that but didn’t know or care what was in the bottle; it was expensive, that was enough. The barman poured another three glasses: two doubles and a single. Darren pushed the doubles towards his sidekicks, tapped his glass on the table top. He was preparing them to shoot the drinks. They held the glasses and tapped the table three times and two downed the drinks in one. The penguin looked as if he had eaten a fish too big for him. The liquid stayed in his mouth, he couldn’t swallow it, he had had too much already. Darren jeered at him as he swallowed and left quickly for the toilet. The sweaty man raised his hand in defeat and after a pleading conversation tottered out of the bar. Darren now alone looked around him, waited five minutes and asked for the bill, his glass still full.

  Darren looked around him alert and decided. He put his jacket on and headed towards the exit nearest to Sebastian. Sebastian walked away quickly hoping the direction to Dam Square was not the same route as Darren’s. He didn’t hear following footsteps; turning he saw the piston buttocks of Darren working at full capacity. He was in a hurry and knew exactly where he was going. Sebastian followed at a safe distance and in the knowledge that Darren knew no fear as he knew no one in Amsterdam. All his actions would be anonymous. He thought.

  They were back in the red light district. Darren surprisingly nimble on his feet, he was in a hurry and avoided collision with deft sidesteps. He didn’t need a compass or map, he knew his destination. Sebastian followed, hiding in the crowd. He nearly lost him as Darren turned into a side street. The side street darker and less populated. Sebastian vaguely remembered being here but couldn’t remember when. He slowed to a stroll. He recognised the street. The cabins were there, the windows with flirting figures, some curtains closed, others open waiting for business, the blue light above each entrance on.

  3

  “You’re very happy this morning,” Anneke hoarsely spoke through exhaled smoke.

  “And you sound as if you were drinking to the early hours of the morning.” She looked tired to Sebastian, with black semi-circles under her eyes. The makeup thicker than usual.

  “Well yes, I was watching the match last night, Bayern Munchen won. And you?”

  “I have a lunch date today,” he said mysteriously. Anneke didn’t respond to the mystery. “With Rosie.” He had waited impatiently for this lunch, three long but deliciously anticipated days.

  Anneke’s eyebrows rose; she didn’t ask the question. She knew he would tell her when he wanted her to know.

  “I hope to have a surprise for her. I hope it’s happened,” he said.

  He had arrived to meet Anneke early, he had left her early and he went to the restaurant too early. There was no one sitting down. It was only 11.45. He was impatient, he wanted to know. He had asked to meet Rosie here at 12.00. He had that awful pre-exam anticipation. Would he know the answer after all that hard work or would it all be a disappointment when he opened the question paper? He looked into shop windows without seeing. He couldn’t decide if the shop was selling wooden clogs or half-circles of Dutch cheese, he didn’t really care. At 12.00 he walked back to the restaurant. There she was, her eyes scanning the passing people. She saw him and waved and ushered him with urgency to the table. She planted two slobbering kisses on his cheeks.

  “Another one,” he said laughing. “Another happy one. What’s your good news?” He waited impatiently. She opened the menu, pretended to read the offering, trying to suppress her excitement. She failed.

  “Ten thousand euros! Ten thousand euros! Can you imagine what we can do with that? Ten thousand euros!”

  His work had paid off, it was as he had hoped, but slightly doubted. The answer was 10,000 euros.

  “We can help train the girls, teach them some skills, get them out…” He nodded and smiled but didn’t hear her. He did hear the voice of the doorman at the Prinsengracht Hotel from three nights ago.

  “It’s too late to wake up Mr Denton now, but yes I will put it under his door this evening.”

  “Thank you, Stephen.” Sebastian fumbled in his pocket for a note to give him.

  “No need, sir.”

  He had walked away with anticipation and exhilaration at what was to come.

  It was seven thirty in the morning when he rang. The voice at the other end gravelly from the booze of the previous night.

  “Yeah, Darren here.”

  Sebastian knew he would be reaching for a glass of water to rehydrate from the previous night whilst scratching his balls.

  “You don’t know me. Just listen and do as I say.” Sebastian knew the accent didn’t sound the slightest like a Dutchman but with the cellophane wrapper from his cigarette packet wrapped around the mouthpiece he knew Darren wouldn’t recognise his voice.

  “Oh fuck off, Paul, I’m not in the mood for this, I’ve got a hell of a hangover. What’s the market going to do today?”

  “It’s not Paul.”

  “OK who the fuck is it?” Darren’s voice was now suspicious.

  “Did you get the note under your door?”

  Sebastian could hear the bedsheets being pulled back. The creak of the floorboards as Darren walked to the door. Sebastian was enjoying himself.

  “Open it.”

  The envelope was ripped with haste. The breathing a little laboured as Darren moved back to the bed to take out the contents. Sebastian hoped he was sweating now, unsure of what was in it. He heard the pulling out of the photograph.

  “That’s you. Bottom right, it’s time stamped at 23.46.”

  “Who the fuck are you?” Alarm now registered in his voice.

  “Someone that knows what you do, when you do it and knows your little secret.”

  There was a pause. Sebastian knew from his business negotiations the next person to speak loses. He waited.

  “That could be anyone, so you can fuck off and die.” It was said too quickly, uncertain and fearful. Sebastian knew Darren wouldn’t hang up. He knew he would be sweating now. He had him.

  “You’re right, that could be anyone. But we both know it’s you. It’s a frame from a video I took a couple of nights ago when you went to visit your secret, your hermaphrodite secret.”

  There was a silence at the other end. Sebastian knew Darren would be standing in his soiled boxer shorts from last night, brow sweaty, armpits moist and he would be breathing his stale breath. Sebastian waited.

  “I’m going to hang up, whoever the fuck you are.” Darren’s voice was now fully fearful. Sebastian knew he wouldn’t, not now.

  “I wouldn’t if I were you. I wonder what your two sidekicks would have to say about the photos, or perhaps your friends at NMH Bank. It wouldn’t be good if these photographs popped up in the inbox of your colleagues in Canary Wharf either.”

  Silence from Darren. Sebastian could hear him breathing, the quick breaths of the cornered.

  “What do you want?”

  Sebastian knew it was over, he had enjoyed himself; he felt no guilt at what he was doing, it wasn’t for him.

  “If you go to reception there is an envelope addressed to
you. It contains some bank details of an account in the name of De Rode Draad. You will pay 10,000 euros into the account.”

  “De what? What the fuck is that?” Darren’s voice moved up a pitch.

  “Look it up.”

  “I haven’t got that sort of money.”

  “Yes you do. It’s what you get paid every month.”

  “Do I know you?”

  “No.”

  “What will you do with the photographs and video?”

  “If you pay within the next three days I will destroy them, no one needs to know but us two.”

  Sebastian could hear the panic in Darren’s voice. Darren was on the wrong side of this trade and knew it.

  “How do I know you’ll do that?”

  “You don’t,” Sebastian replied flatly.

  “Fuck you, you’re bluffing.”

  “Am I? I wonder how long it would take your secretary Tracy to distribute the copy of the video at the water fountain. You know where everyone meets to gossip. The one next to the lift on the 52nd floor?”

  “I’m not going to pay. Fuck you.” Darren’s voice was almost hysterical with fear and anger.

  “If you don’t then you will pay the consequences. Three days.” He knew he shouldn’t but couldn’t resist the retort; it had been last aimed at him by Darren. “Looks like you’ve been fucked twice in the past twenty-four hours, doesn’t it? Goodbye.”

  “Sebastian, Sebastian, are you listening to me? Ten thousand euros!” Rosie had interrupted his reverie by shouting excitedly and grabbing his arm.

  “You know something, Rosie, you are one of the most beautiful things I have ever seen.” Sebastian crossed the table and cradled her head with his hands covering her ears and kissed her on the lips.

  “I love seeing you happy.”

  He took his hands away from the sides of her face.

  “You feeling alright? Your face is very hot.”