Alternative outcome

by Peter Rowlands

Where it was leading was quite another matter. Ashley was engaged, and seemed comfortable and at ease with her fiancé. At any rate, that was my memory from Truro. Yet clearly there was a real spark between us, and apparently she wasn’t afraid to explore it. How was I supposed to feel about this? I’d never before found myself in the role of “other man”, so I’d never bothered to work out the bounds of my moral compass.

  It was clearly time I did.

  I logged on to the airline web site, and after trawling around it for far too long, came to the conclusion that I couldn’t change my airline booking to an earlier flight – I could only forfeit the existing return ticket and buy a new one at my own cost.

  Well, sod it; that’s what I’d have to do. I booked a return flight out of Schiphol that would necessitate a ridiculously early start, logged off, then sat back and allowed myself a grin of anticipation.

  I opened an email window to send Ashley confirmation of our date.

  1988

  Sasha crouched by her windowsill, peering down into the hotel garden. The main lawn was illuminated faintly by the night light in the hall, but the trees were lost in darkness. Finally she was satisfied. She slipped out of her room and tiptoed along the corridor, then up a flight of stairs, along more corridors, and finally down the back stairs to the games room. As she expected, the door out to the garden was not locked, merely jammed shut as it always seemed to be. She eased it open as quietly as she could and stepped cautiously outside.

  She had worked this out earlier, roaming the garden in the twilight, but she’d needed to be careful. She could feel the eyes of that boy on her as he sat on the terrace with his parents. Why did he never have anything to say for himself?

  It didn’t matter now. After tomorrow she would be gone, and would never see him or any of these people again. Or England, come to that. A new name and a new life: an adventure to end all adventures, her father called it. Such unutterable fucking crap.

  She rounded the corner and glanced warily around. No one in sight. Cautiously she pulled up the grating as she’d seen her father do it last night, peering dubiously into the darkness. A shiver of trepidation ran through her, but she forced herself to ignore it as she shone her torch into the gloom. At least the faint light was reassuring. She edged her way down the ancient stone steps and pushed open a warped, decaying door at the bottom.

  She sensed rather than saw the spiders and crawly things as she shone her light round various indeterminate shapes, but her anger overrode her instinctive fear. Her greater worry was how she would ever find anything down here. All she knew was that her father had gone down laden with heavy bags, and come up again with nothing.

  In the end she found them under the ancient wine rack, in a brick cavity hidden by an upturned flagstone. She edged them out. They rattled slightly. What was in them? She didn’t want to know. She dragged them to the steps, and somehow managed to manhandle them to the top.

  And then across the lawn and through the trees to the secret place: a much better place than her father’s, she reflected with private pleasure. He should have consulted her about it. Well, fuck him, he could come to her if he ever wanted this stuff back.

  That was assuming he or any of them was ever in the country again.

  Chapter 23

  Visits to foreign trade shows were an assault on all the senses. The different language, the unfamiliar architecture and street signs, the strange snack foods, the hassle of understanding arcane public transport rituals – everything contributed to the overall sense of displacement.

  I made my way from the airport to the centre of Amsterdam by train, then took a tram out to the convention centre. After a horrendously early start that morning, I was already feeling dazed when I walked into the show arena.

  Hydraulic cranes in reds, greens and yellows thrust their necks out from the stands like foraging animals from some alien planet; conveyors shuttled empty cardboard boxes pointlessly back and forth; giant lift trucks held full-sized freight containers precariously aloft. Visitors chatted to each other in a dozen languages as they paced along broad red-carpeted aisles, and everywhere the air was laden with the unique scent of machine oil and fresh paint.

  At least now I was on familiar ground; shows like this transcended borders, and this one could have been taking place anywhere in the world. All I had to do was find enough news to justify the trip.

  The last time I’d visited an event of this kind I’d gathered together an enormous sheaf of news releases from the press room, then written up half my report from those: the lazy man’s approach, but I wasn’t out to conquer the world. These days printed press releases were few and far between. If you were lucky, the people on the stands would hand you their latest news on a USB memory dongle; if you weren’t, you would have to look up the information on their web site later, and hope they’d bothered to post it there.

  Alternatively, of course, you could actually take the trouble to engage people on the stands in conversation. Wasn’t that in fact why I’d come? Summoning up vague memories of tonne-metres, bending moment and mechanical advantage, I braced myself to go and talk about cranes.

  * * *

  Some indeterminate number of hours later I was gratefully drinking a glass of white wine on a crane manufacturer’s stand when I caught sight of a figure who looked vaguely familiar. It was Janni Noble, hovering a few feet away from the stand and surveying the hardware on display. A man from the crane company was standing beside him, following his gaze and perhaps wondering how best to embark on a sales pitch.

  What should I do? Confront him? Avoid him? Wait to see what he would do? I sat there indecisively for a moment. I’d been speculating for weeks that he’d been orchestrating the break-ins at my house, but I had no actual evidence of it. I finally decided the best I could achieve here was to make myself known to him, and try to gauge his response. Making my apologies to my host, I left the bar warily and walked over to him.

  “Mr Stanhope,” he greeted me. “We meet again. What brings you to this event?” His tone was neither friendly nor unfriendly.

  I stepped off the stand and held my hand out to him. “Plenty to report here for the trade press.”

  He shook my hand briefly and perfunctorily. “I did not know you were an expert in these matters.”

  “I’m not. Jack of all trades, that’s me.”

  “I see.” He gave me an emotionless stare, then turned his gaze beyond me towards the stand.

  “What brings you here?” I asked him.

  He focused on me again. “We are adding a batch of crane carriers to our rental fleet. I want to buy the right product for our market at the right price. This is the top show, so it is the best place to look.”

  It was impossible to gauge his attitude to me, but on the strength of this slender evidence he seemed supremely uninterested – almost bored.

  I tried, “You must let me know if there’s anything I can help you with.”

  He looked at me a little more closely. “And what kind of help do you think might you be able to offer?”

  Once again I was struck by the force of his personality. This was someone I would not want to cross. Deciding to make light of my comment, I said, “Oh, the background to the logistics business, anything in that vein.”

  “I will be sure to read your report on this show.”

  He didn’t ask what paper to look in, and I didn’t volunteer it. Already he was looking back towards the exhibits. I took my leave and slid away, gratefully rounding the corner of the stand and moving out of his line of sight. I headed off down the aisle.

  * * *

  By six o’clock I was exhausted. Unfortunately I somehow had to find the energy to attend an evening function hosted by one of the conveyor manufacturers. Phil Connor had insisted I go to this in order to fly the flag for his magazine. However, events were about to take a different turn.

  I spotted a fellow-journalist, Ade Lumsden, as we were both making our way towards the exit. “Are you going to t
his Armstrong function tonight?” I asked him.

  “Didn’t they tell you? It’s been cancelled. Some kind of problem with the booking. Don’t ask me.”

  I stopped in my tracks. “Fuck. I wish I’d known.”

  I’d kept my booking at the hotel that night because I couldn’t have made it back to the UK after the dinner. If I’d known it would be cancelled I would have booked an evening flight home – and been sure of making it to the lunch with Ashley the next day. But I was in no mood to unpick my travel plans now.

  Ade stopped and turned back. “A night on the town, then?”

  I caught up with him. “Sounds a reasonable idea.”

  Mercifully, Ade’s idea of a night on the town meant nothing more demanding than a leisurely meal in a restaurant just off Dam Square in the city centre. Two other British journalists joined us, and we sat downing local beers and discussing the state of the world, doing battle with enormous platefuls of pneumatic rookworst, mashed potato and sauerkraut.

  Ade, a man with a rotund face and a permanently jovial expression, always seemed to know everything about everyone in our business, and took conspicuous delight in sharing the latest salacious information about mutual acquaintances. Suddenly I realised he’d turned his focus on me.

  “What’s this I hear about Jason Bright downrating you?”

  Downrating was a term exclusive to Bright’s magazine, and meant exactly what it said: moving writers off the list of priority contributors. Had he done this to me? It didn’t seem to fit with his positive attitude the last time we spoke, but it would certainly account for his hesitant manner on all the other occasions he’d contacted me in recent months.

  Temporising, I said, “What gave you that idea?”

  “I heard there were issues. Mistakes being made. Late copy.” He smiled cheerfully. “Too many nights on the razz?” He tore a chunk off his bread roll. “Only what I’m told.”

  I marvelled at his extraordinarily thick skin. When you wanted to know something, Ade was a useful source of information, but he seemed to have no allegiances or loyalties, and no compunction about sharing information with anyone who would listen – even if that someone was the target of the gossip.

  All I could manage to mutter was, “Charming.”

  “Not true then? All hot air?”

  I looked at him. “For god’s sake Ade, what do you expect me to say?”

  To his credit he looked almost contrite. “No offence intended. All I’m saying is that it’s a small world, and the word gets round.” He chuckled. “And I don’t mean because I spread it.”

  I thought for a moment. “I tell you what – let’s just say I was in a bad place, but now I’m in a good place again. How would you like to put that about?”

  “Message received and understood.” He nodded emphatically, then launched into a conversation with the journalist sitting the other side of him.

  I spent a long while in moody silence. What Ade said had made uncomfortable listening, whether true or not. I thought I’d moved out of the black period I’d been in, but from his comments, that view wasn’t necessarily shared by my peers. I felt all the more aware of the need to write a convincing report of this event.

  * * *

  It was a little later, as I returned from the men’s room, that I spotted Janni Noble sitting at a table with a smaller man in a corner alcove. Janni had his back to me, and just as I was approaching I saw the other man draw a large bundle of cash from his side pocket and pass it discreetly to Janni. I only saw this because of the unusual angle.

  I slowed down, trying to watch unobtrusively. I recognised the outer note as a yellow 200 euro bill. If the whole wad was made up of the same denomination, it must run to many thousands of euros.

  What did it mean? Anything or nothing? If I hadn’t known about Janni’s history I would have dismissed it as insignificant. As it was, I was immediately speculating that it must be some sort of illicit pay-off. Could Janni still be involved in the people smuggling business?

  The place was crowded, and people were constantly getting up and moving around, so I was able to hover a moment while I took all this in. However, eventually the smaller man glanced my way, and I fancied he fleetingly caught my eye. He showed no sign of recognition, but I decided I’d lingered long enough.

  My party were still engaged in earnest conversation when I returned to my table. I hung on for a while, trying to summon up an appropriate level of jollity, but eventually I decide it was a lost cause. I gave them the right money to pay for my meal and headed off.

  * * *

  As I started down the street in the direction of my hotel two figures stepped out in front of me – Janni Noble and the other man. They must have left just before I did, but had now turned back to confront me. The Koninklijk Paleis loomed behind them, illuminated by floodlights in soft dappled browns.

  “Mr Stanhope.” Noble was conspicuously blocking my way.

  “Hello again.”

  He turned to the other man. “This is the person you saw?”

  His companion, a stout figure with a round face and a dark moustache, looked carefully at me and then nodded vigorously. “Yes it is. Yes.”

  Noble turned to me again. “Mr Stanhope, you seem to be taking a surprising interest in my affairs. Some people might find such interference insulting.” He took a step forward, no doubt intending to intimidate me by his height and his sheer presence.

  I was unsure what to say. Presumably these two were not about to assault me in one of Amsterdam’s main tourist areas, but what else did they want?

  “Mr Stanhope, you gave me the impression earlier today that you had some agenda in what you were saying to me. Now you are spying on me and my colleagues. I find your behaviour unpleasant and offensive.”

  There was no point in antagonising this man. I decided the best policy was to calm the situation. “Please accept my apologies if I have given you the wrong impression. I don’t mean to offend anyone.”

  He stared at me for a moment without replying, then said, “Mr Stanhope, please do not treat me like an idiot. You think you are a campaigning journalist. You think you are confronting the hard world out there, and doing good work. You are not. You are a minor player with no insight and no influence, but a propensity for meddling.”

  He turned to his colleague as if for endorsement, then back to me. “Take my advice – stick to writing articles about trucks and cranes, and do not interfere in affairs you do not understand.”

  He allowed his words to hang in the air for a moment, then he and his colleague stepped apart, leaving me room to walk on between them. “I wish you a good night.”

  Chapter 24

  A good night is not what I had. I was worried I would sleep through my alarm, and I finally fell into a troubled slumber at about 3am. Then I almost did miss the alarm, and had to grab my few belongings and check out of my hotel in a panic. I more or less ran half-way to Amsterdam’s main railway station before succeeding in catching one of the city’s modern trams. Having negotiated the airport’s check-in and security system, I then found that the plane had been delayed by three quarters of an hour. I sat in the departure lounge feeling hot, resentful and hung over.

  Finally we were under way, and as the flight progressed I kept reassessing my timetable. I would just have time to catch a train home from Gatwick, shower and change, then catch another to central London and meet Ashley at Kings Cross.

  It all went more or less to plan. At Gatwick I caught a stopping train to East Croydon, then from there I took a bus to Thornton Heath. Finally I was walking the last leg to my house. Should I call Ashley to confirm that I was on track? I took out my phone, then it occurred to me that I didn’t have her mobile number, only the main number for the Latimer Logistics switchboard. I stopped for a moment, debating whether to ring them and ask for it.

  Which is when it all went wrong. I paid no attention to the car that pulled up beside me or the two men who climbed out, and before I knew it they’
d grabbed me roughly by the arms and bundled me inside. My phone clattered to the ground.

  Looking back later, I found the whole episode almost unreal. I’d seen this scenario played out in countless films, read it in countless book, but never once envisaged it happening to me in reality. The sheer audacity of it amazed me – these people’s practised confidence, their apparent disregard for witnesses and possible surveillance cameras.

  At the time, I was simply stunned. It all seemed to happen in a blink. One moment I was on the street, the next I was pinned down in the middle of the back seat, struggling wildly and yelling, “What the FUCK are you doing? What the FUCK?”

  To no avail. It was an upmarket car with a plush interior lining and lightly tinted windows. No one outside could see me, and the sound of my voice seemed ridiculously muted. Any hope I had of being heard outside was dashed when the driver, a short man in a light grey hoodie, reached out and turned up the radio, and ear-shattering dance music immediately flooded the car.

  We pulled away, and were soon travelling north along London Road. For a while I continued to thrash about, yelling at the same time, but the two men were immensely strong, and conveyed an effortless commitment to keeping me in place. They seemed to know exactly how much pressure to apply without exerting themselves unnecessarily. Eventually I stopped resisting and forced myself to calm down, waiting to see what was going to happen next.

  We continued north through the extended suburb of Norbury and into Streatham. It was hard to make out whether we were heading somewhere specific or just driving at random. Periodically I tried shouting “Where are we going?”, but nobody answered. Eventually I gave up and risked glancing at my captors. They all seemed to be in their twenties or early thirties, and were wearing unremarkable casual clothes with woollen hats or hoodies. I couldn’t easily have described any of them if asked.