Chapter Thirteen

Stellachi fingered the ring on his fourth finger, which was new and a little loose. He liked to twirl it around, to run his fingers over its gold, and let the amethyst eyes in the skull catch the light. Childish, but enjoyable. It was an original SS skull’s head. He was calming, though his face still burned. Earlier they’d talked to him in a way he wasn’t used to, and wouldn’t tolerate from anyone but his paymasters. This was that clown Agani’s fault, and those imbeciles he employed. They were careless, and now the blame fell on him. He’d been sent for, told about it, what they expected from him now. Four were dead, they said. The London operation would have to be rebuilt. Stellachi was told to finish it.

If he’d found the goods nothing would have been said. Stellachi was certain she’d swallowed them, girls like her always did, but he’d underestimated Lena, just as those clowns had underestimated this Richards. It would have been better to have stayed in the girl’s flat and finish him also.

Albanians! Throat slitters and back stabbers one and all, no sense of honour, of history, just vile pigs grubbing around in the dirt. He should have stayed in Bucharest and never worked for them. Since they’d shot that old bastard and his wife Romania had opened up, lots of opportunities there now for someone like him, but it was awkward to get out and go back; Albanians did not like out, unless it was feet first.

Stellachi’s life had been good in the last ten years. He’d seen a lot of places, made good money, more than enough for his needs. He liked to display his new fortune, to show it to the world; the suit he wore now cost a thousand euros, how much bani in the old money was that? The shoes were hand made for him, best Italian workmanship, but he didn’t pay for the ring. He’d taken it from someone who’d annoyed him, which made its presence all the sweeter. These tastes were simple, he had others more complex, fools might think them extreme, and he had the lifestyle to indulge them now. He’d earned it, and was not going to let anything go.

What this Richards was doing was understandable. The man had feelings for Lena. To him she wasn’t a lowlife whore, smuggler and cheat, she was his woman. Stellachi smiled to himself. She’d thought it was Richards when he’d entered the flat. Lena didn’t lack for spirit, and had even tried to hit him with an ashtray. It had been necessary to silence her quickly. By the time she came to, he’d searched the flat and found nothing. Lena wouldn’t say where the goods were. So foolish. Stubborn. So Albanian. Maybe she thought he’d leave her, and report back. That was even more foolish. Even when he got the long meat knife from the kitchen she wouldn’t talk. It was a new experience for him. The only other woman he’d killed had stepped in front of another target, and didn’t count. He snuffed out her airwaves with the palm of his hand and went to work. Nothing was found. Lena had died for her diamonds. He’d straightened up the flat, neatness was everything to him, and left her looking quite peaceful, if a eviscerated woman could ever look that. The end, as far as he was concerned. Let others find the goods. Now he’d been sent for, and told what had happened since. At least it was quite amusing about Agani.

On the black wooden table in front of Stellachi was a picture of Mark, provided by another clown, Tony. He’d taken it when Richards was coming out of a building somewhere in London, a poor shot, but clear enough for Stellachi to study. The man was large, and obviously fit. Stellachi used a magnifying glass to examine the eyes, yes, strength was there, and a certain madness. A certain madness was necessary.

Now they thought Richards would come to Amsterdam, but the man wouldn’t fly. Another fool, but perhaps a more interesting one. Enough men had died around him. Those brothers had died in Wales. He’d looked it up on a map but it still meant nothing to him.

Stellachi had men watching the ferry ports. Richards would not be hard to spot, but he’d let him come on. It might be amusing, for they’d told him that a photograph had been taken from Agani’s place, that one of him and Agani in Rome. This Richards must be doing the same as him, studying an image, and looking for an edge. He would not find one. Stellachi called out for Hakim. It was the boy’s eighteenth birthday and they were going out.

‘Here,’ Stellachi said, ‘I have something for you.’

Hakim stood in the doorway, smiling hesitantly. He looked younger than he was. Stellachi liked the way the boy seemed to move smoothly along the floor, quite silently, like a rat treading on silk. Stellachi pointed to a white shirt that was draped over a chair.

‘It’s Egyptian,’ Stellachi said, ‘pure cotton. Good enough to have been worn by a pharaoh. Put it on.’

Stellachi looked out from the penthouse at the abysmal night. He hated Amsterdam when summer ended. A city of fog, rain, and shabby people.

‘I feel Arab tonight,’ Stellachi murmured, ‘I’ve booked a table at the Shibli, to remind you of home. The other half of your present.’

Hakim changed in front of him. The white shirt looked good on his sand-coloured torso, taut and finely muscled. Maybe I actually have feelings for this one, Stellachi thought. Maybe.

*

Anton pretended to remember him, but Mark doubted that he did. Why should he, he was just another dodgy punter passing in the night.

‘You should have phoned, my friend, I might have been full.’

Anton was another of these my friend people, and he was watching football on a TV the size of a wall. He held a thin glass of jenever in his hand, and wore a once-white vest stretched over a spreading gut, striped track-suit bottoms and trainers. Regulation slob gear. A small earring in his right ear completed the effect. The man was pudgier than Mark remembered, and he had a friend with him, a Dutch version of Kelly, who eyed Mark up with a mixture of admiration and fear. Mark looked right through him.

‘Well? You full or what?’

‘For you I have a room. Last one, my friend. Amsterdam is still busy, lots of students around. It’s at the top, on the third floor. Remember how steep the stairs are.’

Anton handed him a large, old-fashioned key. He wasn’t joking about the stairs. The Lola was a converted town-house, very old, built for the merchants who’d served the rich in another time. The flight of wooden stairs was almost straight up, kids could have gone up on all fours. A room at the top might be a good place to defend, but impossible to escape from.

At least the shower worked this time. It was the first thing Mark tried. He had stayed here in the middle of winter last time, when Anton’s old wooden windows had proved useless against the cold and the shower had packed up.

As he let it warm up he stood by the large window and looked down onto the canal which ran alongside the Lola. The voice on the plane was right about the weather. Rain beat against the window and the street below had been slicked wet. The lights of a few houseboats glimmered through the gloom as a low fog settled onto the surface of the water. The sluggish canal below threaded its way through buildings like a black snake. Amsterdam was still tonight, and autumn was coming on strong. Mark stood under the shower and got warm.

Day five, PL was coming to a close. Five days, six lives. It might be seven if Carl didn’t pull through. There was a full-length mirror in the shower room, its cracked imperfections clotted with brown slime. As it cleared, Mark dried off and checked himself out. There was nothing much to show what had gone on, just a small bruise where Angelo had chopped him. His body had come through unscathed, all the scars were inside. How many times had he posed in mirrors as a kid, not that Julie ever managed to buy a full-length one. He’d postured, dreamed, railed, gone through every emotion in front of them. Like Robert de Niro on speed. Any comments about vanity from his mother brought instant rage, the kind of rage that kids brought on when denying obvious truth.

There was no message from Julie on the mobile. He thought of sending her a text, but turned his phone off. Arrived safely hardly seemed right, especially as she didn’t know where he was or what he was trying to do. Better to try to keep himself out of her thoughts, as much as he could.

In the low light of a bedside lamp Mark studied the notebook again, and unfolded a map of the centre of the town. He put a cross on each address he found. Three of them were firmly in Porn City, not much more than a short walk away. Footsteps stopped outside. Mark got up and went to the window. It was a couple going home, the woman trying to hold her man up as he lurched over the cobblestones. They disappeared into the fog. It was thick now, the canal no longer visible, yet he could sense the water close by and hear the light chink of houseboats moving. Mark turned off the light but it was harder to turn off his mind. He was in enemy territory now. Stellachi might be outside, he might be on the stairs, he might be opening the door. Mark fell asleep with this thought.

*

Julie almost walked straight into Carl’s ex. She was rushing to get to the hospital, for a nurse had told her on the phone that Carl had regained consciousness. They appraised each other. Julie dabbed at her hair nervously, and wished she’d managed to get a night’s sleep. She hadn’t had time to put her face on either. Unlike this woman, who looked like she’d come straight from a beautician.

‘I’m Karen,’ the woman said. ‘I knew he was with someone. One of his mates saw you in a club. Don’t worry, I’m not going to start nothing. I don’t care who he’s with.’

‘I wasn’t worried. Not about that.’

‘Look, what the hell happened to him? Fell down the stairs? I don’t think so. I’m thinking of phoning the police.’

‘What, do you think I’ve beat him up? All five-foot nothing of me. Look, I’d been out shopping. When I came back Carl was at the bottom of the stairs. He’d slipped.’

‘And his car’s been nicked, an’ all. On the same day. He’s been leading an exciting life with you, hasn’t he?’

Julie shrugged. Part of her wanted this woman to phone the police, then the whole story could be dragged out of her, but it was too late. Mark was going to do whatever he was going to do, and nothing would stop that now.

‘How is he? Julie asked.

‘He’ll live. He’s pulled round. Always was a strong bugger.’

‘I’ll go in and see him, then. Look, do what you want about the police, but Carl won’t tell them any different. There’s nothing to tell. It’ll be a waste of time, and he don’t need hassle right now. None of us do.’

‘Oh, I know he won’t change the story. He always was close, that one, never knew what the hell he was thinking. No, I wash my hands of it. You can keep him.’

I intend to, Julie thought, if any of us get out of this. Carl was in intensive care, a tube in his mouth, wires trailing from various parts of his body, screens monitoring his condition. A ward sister approached her and they spoke in whispers.

‘He came round a few hours ago,’ the nurse said. ‘Remarkable, really, most people with head injuries like Carl’s take three or four days. He’s drifted off again now, but the doctors are very pleased with him. He’s amazingly fit for his age, and that’s helped a lot.’

‘What’s that tube for?’ Julie asked.

‘To help him breathe. It’ll be out in a few days if he continues to improve.’

Julie sat next to Carl and brushed his hair from his forehead, his eyes fluttered a little, then opened.

‘Hiya, babes.’

‘Jool. It is you?’

‘Course it is.’

‘I’ve been having so many weird dreams I’m not sure what’s going on.’

‘Do you remember what happened yesterday?’

For a moment Julie thought it might have been wiped from his memory.

‘Aye, just about. I fell down the bloody stairs, didn’t I. Where’s Mark?’

‘Gone.’

‘We’ll be all right now, Jool.’

‘Course we will.’

‘Christ, I feel tired. Like I’ve never slept. Went three days awake in the Falklands, but this …’

Carl fell asleep in mid-sentence. The nurse checked on him.

‘No problem,’ she said quietly. ‘All the monitors are fine. He needs lots of rest now.’

‘Can I stay?’

‘Of course you can.’

Julie was not sure how long she stayed there. She was dozing herself when she was pressed on the shoulder by a nurse and offered a cup of tea. She took it gratefully. Julie wasn’t used to this world of kindness. She cried softly and started to worry about Mark again, wondering if she could survive the loss of another son. She was still only fifty yet life had seemed long, and hard to spend. Those people who said it was too short must be happy people. Meeting Carl told her how she’d missed out, and now Mark was on some stupid man’s game of kill or be killed. He’d always been fighting life, one way or another. The nurse came back. It was time for Julie to go. She’d take a taxi to Carl’s place now to get her stuff.

It was weird standing in Carl’s house. She half expected those men to bundle their way in again. The lock of the back door was bust. Looking around, it didn’t seem like Carl had much to steal, but she propped a chair against the door. It would have to do, for now.

By the time Julie got back to the B & B it was dark. She sat on the bed, looking out of the window at the sky, not thinking much at all. Her head was a strange show of images, as if the last day had been freeze-framed. She saw the action rush through her private picture show, she was able to look in on herself, see herself scream in that damn churchyard, see herself try to help Carl as he crumpled onto the floor, watch the cars blow up and not believe her eyes. Not believe any of it. Then she was in that bloody forestry, so close to the old place. That was the weirdest thing of all. Mark had brought it all back there, like they were joined at the hip to the past. Julie texted her son, but didn’t send the message. She didn’t seem able to. Maybe she would in the morning.

Julie looked at the cheap wooden door of the bedroom, and felt very vulnerable. She took off her shoes, but nothing else, and got into the bed, pulling the sheets over her head, like she had as a little girl. Perhaps it would all go away in the morning.

*

A truck reversing woke Mark up. It was delivering booze to Anton’s, backing up along the narrow street, wheels close to the canal. Amsterdam was not built for traffic. He didn’t feel too bad, and had slept. His head and body were prepared for anything, there was nothing left to do other than start the ball rolling. He showered, found clean underwear and a shirt, then checked as much as he could from the window and went downstairs. There was a young French couple having breakfast, but no other guests. So much for Anton being full, the lying bastard. He just wanted him to have the crappest room.

A Filipino maid greeted him. She had a genuine white-toothed smile, and probably thought the peanuts Anton paid her was heaven. Anton’s head and shoulders appeared through a serving hatch.

‘Ah, good morning, my friend. And it is, eh? Fog gone, rain gone, sun out. Just how we like it in Amsterdam.’

He still had the vest on, or, if it was a replacement, it had replacement stains, brown sauce spots like tracer bullets across his stomach.

‘I can see you’re rushed off your feet,’ Mark murmured.

‘People are up early here. So much to see.’

‘Huh huh.’

‘Is the room all right?’

‘Perfect.’

Mark ate ham, cheese and eggs. If he came through this, he might go back to what Lena had wanted him to eat. A kind of food remembrance of her.

The couple left and Anton joined him halfway through breakfast, sitting down without being asked. He had a certain odour, like cooked meat. His face looked like cooked meat. He probably knew everything that crawled in Sexland, Mark thought. Anton was the type that might spend a lot of time there.

‘So, my friend, you are well? You look well. How do they say it in English? A body to die for.’

Mark half expected Anton’s hand to sneak across the table. The thought of stabbing his sausage fingers with a fork was quite pleasurable.

‘You are here on business? Pleasure? I always find it best to mix both.’

‘Yes, business. Mine.’

Mark held a cup under Anton’s nose.

‘Get me some more coffee.’

Anton looked around for the maid, but got it himself. When he brought it back he didn’t sit down again.

‘You are not a morning person, my friend,’ Anton murmured.

‘That’s right. Same with afternoon and night.’

Anton tittered, but he’d got the message. The front door bell rang. Anton always kept the door locked, which was another reason Mark had come here.

‘I must attend to my business,’ Anton said.

Mark’s hands tightened around his breakfast knife, which would be practically useless, but he saw Anton usher an old woman into the lobby. She wore an ancient mink coat and a poodle trailed behind her on a silver lead. She looked like a retired Madame, and could have been Anton’s mother. She had the same complexion, though her cooked meat was creased with a map of bruised veins. The old woman smiled at Mark.

Mark went back up to his room. It had a boarded floor with a few worn rugs on it. He prodded around, sure that something this old would have a loose fitting somewhere. He found one near the window, a piece of board he was able to prise up a few inches, enough to expose a joist. There was room here to place Angelo’s notebook, the copy would stay with him. He got a coat, his map, and let himself out before Anton knew he was gone. The Dutchman was wrong about the fog. Sun was trying to cut through it but it still lay on the surface of the canals, dissecting the city like lines of smoke. The morning was crisp, and people were dressed more for the winter. The heat of London seemed a long time ago. Mark had to think what day it was. Wednesday. Day six, PL.

Wherever he went in this place Mark would be a target, moving or sitting. If his luck was holding they wouldn’t know he was here. He had just the ghost of a plan, and less than the ghost of a chance – to knock out Stellachi, then bargain for his life with the notebook. Mark had never believed in ghosts. Not that it mattered; if it didn’t work with Stellachi he wouldn’t be around anyway.

There were a few Lena look-alikes on the street, leggy, high-heeled women who walked cautiously over the cobblestones. The alleys near the canals must be lethal places for drunks, Mark thought, or hunted men. He kept away from people as much as possible, heading across town for Stellachi territory, trying to get his bearings and use the map only when he had to. He was aiming straight for the address Angelo had underlined. Stellachi – Sexland. Maybe it was the man’s own club, that would figure.

Mark stood in an alley way and looked out on Dam Square. There were still a lot of tourists around, kids mostly, and a few lines of Japanese, clicking or camcording everything. The Royal Palace reminded him of one of Julie’s Christmas decorations, one of the few that survived his rages and the moves of many uncles. She’d get it out year after year, and put it on the mantelpiece. The place looked like it belonged on a chocolate box, lots of fancy brickwork, maybe a hundred windows, set off by a spiked tower. Julie would love it here. She thought a beach on the Gower was exotic.

Mark took the Damstraat off the square and was soon amongst the crap. A shop was opening up, much like that camping place in Cardiff. The knives in the window caught Mark’s eyes. All sorts, for all purposes. He went in and bought one. A fold-up job with a bone handle that fitted into an inside pocket. Maybe its blade couldn’t deflect bullets, but at least he didn’t feel so naked now. It was early, this place did not really come alive until nightfall. In daylight it was stripped of its cover, and looked bored with itself, as if sex was out of fashion, no longer exciting, just necessary. There was probably more weird stuff now, Mark thought, jaded wankers looking for ever more extreme action. Even at this time of day a few guys came onto him, asking for or offering crack or charlie. Charlie, such a friendly name, for an entrance to hell.

Mark located Sexland. Its neon sign was worn and tarnished but it was still on, flickering defiantly as the sun tried to oust it. Above was the backlit image of a girl fingering a breast with one hand. She was tall and deep red, the colour of blood, made to catch the eye, and she caught his. There were apartments above the club, de-luxe crud, by the look of them. An old man was sweeping up outside, attacking last night’s waste, as he had a thousand times before. It looked like the brush was fighting back. He could have been Anton’s father. Same grubby look, but the lechery on this one’s face had turned into a memory, his face was leather rather than cooked meat, his eyes glazed, and the hair at the sides of his head was dyed jet black, like two wings. He noticed Mark watching him, stopped brushing and came over.

‘Help you, mister?’ the old man said.

He still smelt of last night. Mark was reminded of Kelly, another reason to be here.

Mark tried to check out every area, but it was hopeless. Too much stuff was going down here. If he wanted anonymity he should have left it until dark, when the place would be jumping with bug-eyed punters. He was standing out in the street, for Godsake, Stellachi might be watching him, laughing his evil head off. Something inside was pushing Mark on to a rapid conclusion. He wanted out, one way or another. He was not nervous, nerves had been left in the Welsh churchyard.

‘Don’t you speak English?’ the old man asked. ‘Everyone who comes here speaks English. The whole world speaks English.’

The old man repeated his question in Dutch, then German, leaning on his brush, enjoying going through his repertoire.

‘English,’ Mark muttered.

‘Sure. Knew it straight off. The club doesn’t open yet, come back tonight. Hey, you want girls? Boys? Both?’

He fumbled in his overalls and produced some cards.

‘She’s good. The best. Not too much money, and this one   you’ll never forget it. This one’s a pretty boy. Very nice.’

Mark took the cards. The door to the club was open, but he doubted that there was a way up to the apartment. He noticed a separate entrance. There was a number on the door, the same one as in the notebook. He thanked the old creep, having acted like a young one.

‘Might come round tonight,’ Mark said.

‘Sure. You have good time. Very good.’

Someone was watching him from the apartment window. It wasn’t Stellachi, it was just a kid, someone not much more than fifteen or sixteen, Mark thought. He didn’t hang around, he didn’t want to make it that easy for them. He walked quickly down the first alleyway he saw and wished he hadn’t. It needed its own sweeper, because it was encrusted with dog crap, maybe some human, and a supporting cast of junk food remnants, vomit and what he thought might be blood, but possibly could have been ketchup, trod into the stones. Discarded syringes littered the ground, like the spears of minute people, and he had to walk carefully. The place could have been the crazy design of some modern artist, out of his head on the ultimate trip. A thought came to Mark that Lena might have been part of this secret world but he crushed it out. He didn’t want to go there. Ever.

Maybe that kid was on the phone right now, maybe he didn’t know anything. Mark didn’t think Stellachi would be the type to spread news around, but he would be careful, after the events in Wales and London. Mark saw that all the clubs had rooms above, perhaps the moneyrakers didn’t want to be too far from their honey pots. All the fancy stuff was in the front, nothing much had been done with the bits out of public sight. There was a service entrance to Stellachi’s place, locked up, but also a fire escape. A metal stairway tacked onto the back of the building, the type that would stretch down if you reached up for the end. Mark did so.

The kid in the window could be anyone, a cleaner, Stellachi’s rent boy, a baby assassin for all he knew, but unless they were drawing him into a trap, Mark doubted if anyone knew he was here yet. Moving his large frame as lithely as he always had, he reached the second floor, where there was small balcony filled with plants. He stood here for a while, and could hear music playing inside. Foreign stuff, African maybe, too sharp for this time in the morning, but it helped with his cover because the window he tried did not want to move at first.

The knife was proving useful already. Mark unfolded it and looked for any weakness in the window frame. It was old and wooden, the type that always had a weakness and the knife found it near the latch. Wood splintered under his probing and access was his. He looked in on a small bedroom that didn’t look as if it was used, and was inside before the face in the window appeared in an open doorway. Mark hit it once, hard, and it fell down on the floor without making a sound.

He stepped past the boy into the main room of the flat. It was a large, and full of everything except Stellachi. He checked through the other rooms, two bedrooms, and a bathroom the size of a small house but he knew no one else was here. If Stellachi had been at home Mark would have copped a bullet as soon as he was on the fire escape. This place was similar to Agani’s penthouse, not so in-your-face but the same I’ve got money statement in everything that was here. There were hand-drawn sketches of studs on the wall, all black and white in silver frames. Stellachi’s pin-ups, some naked, some in white underwear. All bronzed, with health-club bodies. In the master bedroom was a large picture of the man himself showing off his own frame. Stellachi was a bit smaller than him, but only because he was in great shape, perfect muscle tone, and not an ounce of excess weight. The shape Mark used to be in, before Lena taught him other things. This man was obsessed with himself.

Mark checked outside through wooden blinds. The old man was still sweeping, the street filling up with the curious, and the shops were coming to life, but he saw nothing to worry him. He quickly searched through drawers and cupboards, looking for anything, but mainly a gun. No such luck – the knife and his fists would have to do.

The kid was coming round as Mark knelt over him. He’d split his lip and bloodied his nose. He was older than Mark had thought, but not by much. As he moaned and opened his eyes Mark lifted him up like he used to do with Daniels, this one was about the same weight, which was no weight at all. Half dragging, half carrying him, Mark took him to the main room and threw him onto the sofa. He was fully conscious now and started a panicky jabber in an unknown language.

Mark let him rave on for a minute, checking the window again, and, making sure the main door was locked, he turned back and showed the kid the knife. The boy tried to shrink away, drawing his knees up against his chest and trying to wipe the blood from his face. Most of it was dripping onto Stellachi’s cream leather furnishing. It would be a kind of calling card, Mark thought.

Mark caught hold of the boy by the throat with his left hand and pressed the knife against his cheek with his right. He shut up straight away and if anyone could be stiff and tremble at the same time, this one could.

‘Stellachi,’ Mark said, ‘where?’

The kid’s eyes rolled whiter and more strange language rushed out of him, which Mark slapped to a halt.

‘English. Come on, you can speak it.’

‘English? No, not so good.’

‘Oh, I think you can, sonny. I don’t have a lot of time, so you’d better learn it fast. Where’s your friend? Mr Stellachi?’

The boy closed his eyes. He seemed to be praying. ‘You’re him.’

‘What?’

‘The man. The one who killed Agani, and the others.’

‘That’s right,’ Mark said, ‘I’ll ask you one last time. Where’s Stellachi?’

‘I don’t know. I never know things like that.’

‘Who are you?’

‘Hakim.’

Mark didn’t respond, and kept the knife pressed to the boy’s face. It loosened Hakim’s tongue more.

‘Hakim, I’m the houseboy. I cook, clean, for Mr Stellachi. He’s good to me.’

‘Aye, I bet. That’s why you’re pissing your pants with fear. You’re more afraid of him than me, even though I’m standing over you with a blade.’

Hakim’s blood was running onto the knife, making it looked used. Mark wiped it on the leather which made the boy wince. He put it away and let Hakim sit up straight.

‘Where?’

‘He went out early, before I am awake. I don’t know where, but he’ll be back soon. Any minute.’

‘You were watching me from the window,’ Mark said. ‘You’ve been phoning people.’

‘I always watch from the window. Mr Stellachi does not like me to go out without him. I didn’t know who you are. Many people come here. Lots of them look like you.’

‘The stairs down, where do they lead to?’

‘You can go into the club or out onto the street. Mr Stellachi never goes into the club. He hates it.’

Hakim stopped and coughed into his hand. There was a gap in his top teeth and the remains of one in his palm. Hakim looked at it tragically.

‘You can get a gold one,’ Mark said.

‘You don’t understand, Mr Stellachi, he doesn’t like …’

‘If I were you I’d be more interested in what I’d like. Who’s in the club now?’

‘Only the cleaners. Everyone else will be in bed.’

‘How come you are up so early?’

‘Sometimes I don’t sleep so well.’

‘How old are you?’

Hakim shrugged, and was cut off by a ringing phone.

‘Leave it,’ Mark said.

‘But …’

‘Leave it.’

The phone stopped after fifteen rings. It was probably Stellachi.

‘I must always be here. I must always answer,’ Hakim said. ‘He will be angry.’

It was a pity about the phone. Mark might have stayed otherwise, try to kill Stellachi, here and now, but the Romanian would be alerted. He’d guess there was only one reason why little Hakim couldn’t answer. Time to go. Time to find another plan. Another ghost.

Mark dipped a finger in Hakim’s blood and wrote call me on the suite, adding his mobile number. The congealing blood stuck to the leather quite well, and he liked the effect. Then he ripped out two of the pages he’d copied from the notebook and gave them to Hakim.

‘Give these to your boyfriend,’ Mark said. ‘Don’t get them messed up.’

Mark almost felt sorry for Hakim, he was just another lost kid, fetched up in the wrong place, with definitely the wrong man.

What Mark had already seen here made all the stuff back home tame, and the estate just a playground for mouthy, disaffected punks. Here he was amongst something else entirely, the real thing; if the real thing meant depraved crazies, all out to make their smear on life. And wedged in between were the Hakims, the girls, the junkies, and all the punters who fed this world. Mark felt dirty.

‘Where’s your mobile?’ he asked Hakim.

The boy pointed to the desk. There were two there, Mark took them both, then cut the cord of the landline. Time to get out, before the cavalry arrived. He left the apartment and went out the front way, past the old sweeper, who, if he was surprised, didn’t show it. Mark glanced up at Stellachi’s window as he walked down the street. Hakim was standing there, holding his face. He was grateful to still be alive, but he was definitely more worried about Stellachi’s return. You should have stayed home, kid, Mark thought, better ripping off tourists in the marketplace than being ripped by a brute like Stellachi.

Mark’s journey back across town was a mixture of care and abandon. His eyes were on constant alert but he made no attempt to conceal himself now. There was no point, Hakim would have been down those stairs to the club as soon as he left, spilling the beans.

He passed the Old Church. Someone was playing the huge organ inside, heavy sounds that seemed to rumble deep from the guts of the building and stay in his head as he skirted the Hash Museum and was back on the edge of The Dam. He went into the first brown café he saw. Although outside the smoking district, its air was still full of dope, but Mark couldn’t be bothered to go anywhere else. Maybe it would help calm him down. He sat at a table near the door and watched his hands shake, veins standing out like blue ropes. A few students were at the back, giggling and already well gone, and an old black guy drooled over a hookah by the toilet doors. His face was carved ebony, and in the hazy light it looked like he was kissing a snake. It would always be murky in here, even on a sunny midday. As his eyes grew accustomed to the gloom a good-looking girl appeared at his table. She was tall, slim-thin, with button breasts in a tight top. The girl looked very fit, and after his short, sweet time in Sexland this was a figure that shone with health. Mark smiled back at her, and ordered soup, beer and a veggie-burger. Best eat now, when he could. Strange how he could still smile, how the lips formed one of their own accord, despite the torment up top.

Mark checked the mobile again. This time Julie was there. Am in a B & B near to the hospital. Carl holding his own. Should be OK. X The oversized X was the best she could do, Mark knew that. Julie wasn’t able to ask him to get in touch, she couldn’t afford to take the risk.

The burger was good. He remembered how Shane had quickly got a taste for the meat version, hanging around the table on tottering legs, like a bloody penguin, waiting for whatever Mark offered. Julie used to get annoyed. He’s too young for that junk, she’d cry, as if they had healthy futures mapped out, as if they had any futures mapped out.

The loss of Shane was like an anvil on his back. Now he too was close to disappearing for good, maybe going down to a watery grave like Lena, and Julie would have the rest of her life to wonder what had happened. He’d given her plenty of stuff to make images with in the last few days, there was no mystery with him, just your everyday tale of murder, mayhem and revenge. Retribution, a big word he learned the meaning of recently. It had been in one of Lena’s magazines and he’d looked it up behind her back, then shown off with his knowledge. A suitable return, that’s how it was explained, especially for an evil act. There’d been a lot of them in the last few days. Was he here looking for a suitable return, or just bloody-minded selfish revenge? The type that had almost got Julie and Carl killed. Maybe Agani should have been enough, and the brothers a bonus for Kelly, but it was too late now. He’d started a bloody ball rolling, and was running with it in the heart of Amsterdam. Eating healthy food. Stellachi would have goons looking all over for him now, cursing them for missing him at the ferry ports. Then he’d see the blood on that sofa and start on Hakim. I have flown, Mark thought. I did it. He could hardly believe it, and trembled with the memory now. Lena had been worth that, but he doubted if anyone would be again.

Mark drank the last of the beer, holding onto the bottle tightly, trying to regain control of his hands. The slim-thin girl was watching him wistfully, he had enough of his senses left to notice that. He nodded to her and left.

Outside a pale sun was being overhauled by yesterday’s cloud. It was mid-afternoon, and it looked like it would be foggy again by nightfall. In ten minutes he’d tracked back to Anton’s and was opening his front door. Anton wasn’t around. He’d left the TV on though, an English channel, the volume just loud enough for Mark to hear some idiot going on about houses. Mark wanted another shower. He needed one. This was foremost in his mind as he trudged up Anton’s Everest stairs and pushed his bedroom door open.

There was a blur of movement in the washroom mirror and Mark grabbed at his knife. Too slow, much too slow. He was on the floor, looking at it sideways, his nose crushed. Even at this angle he recognised Stellachi. Sitting on the bed and taking off white leather gloves.