Wolf Angel

by Mark Hobson

  Where are you? he had asked.

  At the small café in The American Book Centre on Spui Square, she told him.

  He’d be there in ten minutes.

  Even though part of it was supposed to be for trams only, Pieter went by the most direct route from the Police HQ on Elandsgracht to Spui, heading straight along to Leidseplein and then turning left to zip by the pavement cafes, to pick up the wide thoroughfare of Rokin at the bottom.

  It was as he was honking his way through the traffic near the Bulldog Coffeeshop that he caught sight of them both, sitting on a bench side by side, with about half a dozen cans of cheap cider lined up on the pavement before them and a pile of empty ones in the trash can close by. The two of them quite obviously much the worse for wear.

  Dad and his boozy lady friend Famke.

  Pieter swore out loud, the implications immediately clear to him, and he swerved hard across the path of an oncoming tram, and pulled in at the side of the roadway. From where they were sitting across Leidseplein they would not see him, and anyway they were pretty much too lost in their drunkenness to even notice the world around them, laughing and fooling around.

  Pieter moved as if to jump out of the car, but then paused, thinking about Lotte waiting for him. He looked again at his dad, his mind torn, a huge welter of anger and frustration and disappointment filling him. He slammed at the steering wheel, fuck, fuck, fuck! And then he sat back in his seat, and shifted the car into automatic, and drove away with his tyres spinning and scrapping against the kerb. He took one final look at them both in his rear view mirror before he lost sight of them amidst the hustle and bustle.

  As soon as he arrived, Lotte, who was sitting waiting for him in one of the window seats, jumped to her feet and flung her arms around him, and the sobbing burst forth. She clung to him tightly, her body quivering and shaking against his, and Pieter hugged her back.

  After a minute or so he gently steered her back to her seat and he sat on the cushioned wooden bench next to her with his arm still around her shoulder. With her head tilted against his shoulder, Lotte quietly dabbed her tears away.

  The café was a small place that he popped into occasionally, and it was never very busy, most times with perhaps just one or two customers sitting quietly in the peaceful atmosphere of the bookshop. The owner – a bit-part TV actress from Spain – waited until Lotte had settled, before she came across and asked politely if she could get them anything. Pieter ordered two cappuccinos. After bringing them over, the owner settled back behind her counter and went back to reading a paperback.

  Pieter and Lotte talked for around an hour, during which time the whole sad story slowly and painfully came out.

  Lotte was from a non EU nation, and upon deciding she wished to stay and work in Amsterdam she had applied for her GVVA work permit. However, these were only intended for short three month periods, and like so many young people doing casual work for cash, she had neglected to renew it or to apply for a residency visa. It had expired a long time ago, but she had continued working as before without informing her boss at The Newcastle Bar.

  Everything had been fine. She enjoyed her job, liked the city, and had a nice rented flat that she had recently re-decorated at her own expense. She was actually starting to think of Amsterdam as her home. But then Bart, her boss, had found out about the expired permit. And instead of reporting her to the city council or terminating her employment, he had instead decided to exploit the situation for himself.

  Pieter sat and listened, knowing very well where it was headed, but letting Lotte talk. A slow-burning fuse fizzed and flared inside him. The threats came first, making her work longer and longer shifts. Then the sly touches, Bart squeezing his bulky frame passed her at every opportunity, laughing jokingly if his hand just happened to linger on her waist or glide across her bottom. After a while becoming more blatant whenever the bar was quiet, or perhaps she would be working in the stock room and she would turn to find him behind her, blocking the doorway and leering at her. Bart becoming more intimidating and cocky, no longer pretending it was accidental, but just trapping her in the corner and terrifying the life out of her. Each time, things getting progressively worse, and all the while threatening to inform the authorities if she complained or pushed him away.

  With Lotte too terrified or confused, and her mind filled with thoughts of court-action or ending up in an immigration centre somewhere, she had found herself trapped in this degrading and frightful situation. But after weeks of suffering this horrendous nightmare she had eventually turned for help from the one person who she could trust.

  Pieter shushed her, and put his arm very gently around her shoulder once again, talking to her in a soothing voice – but all the while seething with anger inside. She had done the right thing, he told her. This ends now.

  He dropped her off at her flat out near De Gooyer, briefly going inside with her to ensure she was going to be ok before heading off. Lotte wasn’t stupid and had a pretty good idea of what he was going to do next, so she implored with him to be careful, not get himself in serious trouble. To his surprise she reached up and put her arms around his neck, pressing her tear-stained cheek against his own cheek, squeezing her fingers into the hair at the back of his head. Promising her he would be back soon, Pieter left.

  ◆◆◆

  The bar was quiet at that time of the afternoon – not that it would have made any difference had the place been packed with customers – and so Pieter went barrelling straight in and grabbed a hold of Bart by the back of his jacket, taking him utterly by surprise. Spinning him around in one fluid movement he ran the fat pervert straight through to the toilet, using his head as a battering ram to smash open the door. Kicking it shut behind him, Pieter pushed Bart’s face straight into the toilet bowl and flushed it.

  After keeping his head under the water for about a minute, Pieter lifted him clear. Bart spluttered and coughed, his face beetroot-red, and he just had time to recognize Pieter before a fist hit him straight in the mouth and split his lip. Pieter hit him in the face again, five or six times, and then slammed his fist as hard as he could into the side of the man’s stomach just about where his kidneys would be. Bart slumped across the toilet bowl, badly winded and gasping for breath, his legs like jelly and unable to support his overweight body. Pieter let him slither down onto the dirty floor in between the toilet and the tiny sink, lifted up his foot, and brought his heavy work shoe down onto the back of the head, hearing the satisfying crunch as Bart’s nose was mashed into the floor.

  Looking at the pile of human waste before him, Pieter gave himself a moment to get his own breath back, his lips drawn back in an ugly grimace. Then he reached down and hauled Bart up, dragging him into a sitting position and twisting the bloodied head about so that their faces were just inches apart.

  “Leave her the fuck alone, you fat fuck,” he whispered coldly.

  Then Pieter left, the few inquisitive customers making way for him.

  He went straight back to Lotte’s through the evening rush hour, the snarled and congested roads allowing him time to calm down and think things over. As he drove his eyes would occasionally glance down at his hands on the steering wheel, seeing the scuffs and grazes on the knuckles. He realized there was a slim chance that Bart would make an official complaint of assault, and that would filter through to his bosses at HQ and likely result in temporary suspension while the incident was looked at, but he felt fairly sure that the last thing Bart wanted was to involve the police. So on that score Pieter wasn’t overly concerned. He could also expedite Lotte’s residency application with the Immigration Department, and make sure she scored enough points with the decision-making panel to be granted a Type II Permit – assuming she still wished to stay, which Pieter reckoned might no longer be the case.

  He also thought about his dad, his heart sinking at the knowledge that he was once more hitting the booze. As with all alcoholics and people suffering with other addictions, the road to recovery see
med never ending, a pathway beset with problems and setbacks. Pieter just wasn’t sure he had the mental reserves to cope with everything that it entailed, as his dad’s sponsor and only relative, and all of the responsibilities that came with that.

  With these concerns weighing him down – plus the increasingly complex case he was currently leading at work – Pieter parked the car and walked back up the stairs to Lotte’s second-floor apartment.

  Knocking on the door he waited, hearing faint movement inside, and he looked straight at the tiny security peephole in the door to give Lotte a clear view of his face. A chain was pulled back and then the door opened, her relieved face peering out at him.

  They hugged again, and she quickly locked the door. As he followed her though to the small kitchen he saw she had changed into jogging bottoms and a loose jumper. The coffee machine was gurgling away on the counter and she poured him a drink, then leaned back against the wall, sipping from her own cup and hugging it for warmth.

  She peered up at him, the faintest of smiles on her lips. He could almost feel the tension sloughing off her.

  “So what happened?” she whispered.

  Pieter blew air out between his lips, and then shrugged. “Probably best not to go into details too much,” he told her. “But he got the message.”

  Lotte nodded, more to herself if anything. “It’s a mess. I was stupid to let things get that bad, I really shouldn’t have.”

  “Hey, there’s only one person to blame here, and you and I know who that is.”

  “I know, but I could have asked you for help sooner. To even let that creep control me like that. I never thought I’d be so…weak…feeble…to allow that.”

  “He was manipulative, and he thought he had you trapped in an impossible situation. A real nasty piece of work. I come across men like that all of the time, and the one thing they all have in common is this weird ability, almost like an affinity, to home in on the vulnerable and frightened. I’m fairly certain you probably aren’t the first woman he has done that kind of thing to.”

  Lotte listened, and then her brow furrowed as something occurred to her, the alarm making her shudder. “He knows where I live. He’s never been here, but he has my address and contact details.”

  “Hey, don’t panic. He’d have to be an absolute moron to come around, and I think even Bart isn’t that much of a dimwit. Another thing guys like that have in common is that they don’t like confrontation, especially with men. They are cowards essentially.”

  Lotte looked around nervously, at the doors and windows. She didn’t seem very convinced at his reassurances.

  Licking her lips, she nodded, and then moved across to a wooden dresser lined with plates and saucers, and reached up for a small delftware pot on the top shelf. Opening the lid she tipped out a key into her hand, and then held it out to him. “This is a spare set, for the front door and also the main door at the bottom of the stairs. Would you have it? Just in case? It’ll make me feel a lot better.”

  Pieter took it and slipped it in his jacket pocket.

  “You can use it anytime you like, just to let yourself in and out. Even if I’m not here. I’m sorry for been a complete wuss,” she smiled weakly, and Pieter smiled back.

  They moved into the main lounge, taking their drinks with them, and sat by the small coffee table. Here they chatted about the situation for a long while, Pieter trying to put her mind at rest, speaking in a gentle voice, and by the time he left the apartment he thought she seemed more positive and reassured.

  “Try not to worry,” he told her in the doorway. “You’ve had a horrid ordeal, but I’ll deal with everything.”

  It was early evening by the time he reached his own place, a tall and elegant canal house with a bell gable. The Singel tended to be quiet after dark with most of the nightlife across the far side of Dam Square, and this was the main reason for choosing the area as his home.

  The house itself, four stories high, was, like most Amsterdam homes, ridiculously narrow. Each floor was accessed by twisting and rickety wooden staircases, with the rooms small and cramped. Even so, he spent most of his time in the living areas on the top two stories. Here there was the living room/lounge, a kitchen with a table big enough for just 2 people, and off the hallway a pair of side-by-side bedrooms, one big and one small. On the next floor up, at the very top of the house, was the tiny attic room right under the gable, with its dusty window looking out across the city. This he used as his office and den.

  Parking his car in the garage built into the ground floor, Pieter dragged himself wearily up the stairs.

  Preparing a quick microwave meal, he grabbed a bottle of beer from the fridge and went up to the attic, squeezing his frame through the narrow doorway.

  The small room was basic, just an old wooden desk near the window on top of which was an old PC. Against a back wall was a tatty couch, the upholstery full of holes, which sagged every time he sat in it. Covering the floor was a square and threadbare rug. Cobwebs were strung from the roof joists. The place could do with a good clean and a lick of paint, but Pieter thought that would spoil its charm, and anyway he liked the musty smell. Some nights he came up here to do a bit of work or to sit and read under the room’s bare bulb. He even sometimes liked to just sit in the dark to gather his thoughts. But tonight he was just too deadbeat to do any of these things. Instead he slouched on the couch and ate his food, drinking his beer from the bottle. His body ached, and he rubbed and massaged the back of his stiff neck, wondering if he had pulled a muscle during his ruckus with Bart.

  Finishing his meal, Pieter put the plate to one side and pushed himself to his feet with a groan. Taking his beer, he strolled over to the room’s grimy window and looked out across the rooftops of Amsterdam.

  Overhead, the clouds parted briefly, revealing the full moon.

  He slept fitfully, disturbed by vivid dreams.

  He was trapped in a dark and square room, a room that had no windows or doors. He lay naked on the floor, and when he tried to rise something cold and slick moved beneath him. He reached down and recoiled in horror when his hand touched the surface, for it slithered and squirmed. Looking closely he saw that the whole of the floor was a broiling mass of glistening black snakes, twisting and coiling and spitting, their bodies slimy and sticky. Again he tried to climb to his feet, and again he couldn’t. Instead, his body started to sink into them, the nest of snakes so deep that in seconds his arms and legs and chest disappeared below the surface with just his face poking out.

  And when he looked up in desperation, Pieter saw that the walls and ceiling were also bristling with them, every inch covered with their grotesquely moving bodies.

  He screamed a silent scream, and they even slid into his mouth and down his throat, and finally he was pulled down into the hot and fetid darkness.

  Pieter woke with a start.

  He lay in his bed covered in a sheen of sweat, the covers twisted into knots by his thrashing body.

  Staring into the darkness, remembering the nightmare, wondering briefly if he was coming down with a fever because his body ached all over.

  He put these thoughts to one side, because something had woken him, and he didn.t think it was the dream.

  Listening hard while he held his breath, the sound came again. The creaking of floorboards from overhead, coming from the attic which was directly over his bedroom.

  Slowly sitting up Pieter craned his neck and looked up at the ceiling, as though doing this would reveal to him the source of the sound. Even though he already knew what it was. Because it wasn’t the noise of the old house settling, the wooden beams groaning and shifting. What he’d heard was the sound of quiet footsteps coming from upstairs.

  Pulling back the damp bedsheets he slipped out of bed and padded barefoot across to the bedroom door. Quietly he eased it open. The window on the landing allowed streetlight to cast a soft glow inside, enough for him to see the open door and the narrow stairs that led to the attic.

  A
gain the sound of movement, and this time a faint shimmer of light from a torch.

  Shit. He had an intruder.

  Moving slowly so as to make no sound, Pieter carefully crept into the corner of his bedroom and opened the cupboard door. He reached inside for a weapon. Contrary to what the public believed, Dutch cops did not keep their firearms at home – in fact strict gun laws also made the ownership of private guns more or less impossible – so instead he took hold of his preferred method for dealing with unwanted visitors. A wooden cricket bat.

  Thus armed Pieter moved cautiously across the carpeted landing and paused at the foot of the attic stairs. Whoever was up there was now moving things around, probably deciding what to take, which was a puzzle really because the intruder would have broken in through the ground floor but had for some reason by-passed all of the other expensive items such as the car and smart TV and so on, and gone all of the way up to the attic room where there was virtually nothing worth stealing. Assuming he was alone, and his mates weren’t ransacking the rest of the house below. Certainly there seemed to be nobody else on this floor at least.

  Pieter decided he could ponder about that later.

  His main concern was catching whoever was up there. And now that Pieter had the only escape route covered there was no way out for him.

  Feeling more emboldened, but with his heart racing all the same, Pieter started a careful ascent of the narrow wooden stairs.

  Thinking it best to not give away his approach, Pieter passed by the light switch on the wall without flicking it, and climbed around the bend, and steeled himself to jump out with a loud shout, brandishing his weapon.

  At the last second something must have given away his approach, perhaps no more than a shift in the air, for there was a pause in the sounds from the attic, followed by a sudden rush of footsteps. Two strong hands grabbed him, one on his shoulder and the other on his face, and shoved hard, sending him tumbling back down the steps. He didn’t fall far but ended up in a heap at the bend in the stairs, and he quickly scrambled up, all attempts at stealth now abandoned.