After two hours of waiting on a hard cold bench and then into questioning I am told I am free to go. No charges will be brought against me. How could there be? I did nothing wrong. I’m reading a card with information that tells me the Dutch legal system is a ‘civil law’ system, which was also explained in plain English to me by a female police officer.
‘The other man, Colin Devlin?’ I ask the police woman who in fairness has been very pleasant to me, taken my statement and given me water. I was not attacked and I have no reason to press charges. She shrugs her shoulders.
‘I do not know,’ she tells me matter-of-factly as she holds her hand on a buzzer, pulls open the door and I have no choice but to leave through it.
It’s freezing outside and I try to hail a taxi. None come. I can’t physically stop shaking. My brown leather jacket offers no heat. My head is thumping now. Putting my head down against the cold, I walk even though I have absolutely no idea where I’m headed. How quickly things turn. How quickly life can just bowl you right over. Strike! I take out my phone, twenty per cent of battery left. I call Colin. His phone is turned off, straight to voicemail. The happy tone of his voice message sends a shiver right up my spine. Then I call Owen. He answers.
‘Hi,’ he says quietly. ‘Are you OK?’
I stand in the doorway of a shoe shop called Clogs. I can smell the fresh leather from the open door. My sense of smell is still bizarre.
‘Yeah, where are you?’ I ask in rushed words.
‘I’m at the airport, Ali, I’m on the next flight home.’
‘What?’ I lean my head against the freezing cold wall. ‘So quickly? What did the doctors say? How is your hand?’
‘Not sure till I get home. I won’t lose any fingers, that’s the main thing. I managed to curl most of them up tight before he slammed the door closed on me, don’t ask me how.’
I wince.
‘I refused the offer of surgery at the hospital: I’ve no medical cover, Ali, no VHI, Layla-whatever insurance, no anything. They saw me immediately, threw a few stitches into my index one which is by far the worst, bandaged me up and released me. I got morphine tablets from the paramedics; they splinted all the fingers, two are possibly broken, they think. I need to get home, fast. My brother is going to loan me money. The police interviewed me at the hospital so I didn’t have to go to the station.’ He doesn’t even sound like Owen O’Neill any more. He sounds like a little boy.
‘I can’t believe this … I’m so sorry. I have never seen him like that before,’ I say.
‘No … well, what did we expect? He’s been into your Facebook account, he told the police. All our correspondence, he had it printed out: the adjoining rooms and all that joking we were doing, he thought it was true. He wants … he wants … he’s looking for evidence of adultery, Ali.’
‘There is none!’ I cry out. The rain is coming down now as a crowd of carol singers have set up and are singing the Dutch version of ‘Jingle Bells’. Sounds like the English version but then it switches into Dutch: ‘Jingle bells, jingle bells, in de arreslee.’
Oh, what fun it is to ride on a one-horse open sleigh.
‘Did you press charges?’ I ask. Trying to focus.
‘No … but I might have to take a case against him when I get home, to cover medical expenses. I can’t afford to fix this, Ali. You know Kieran, my brother, is a guard; he said I have a case, mainly to pay for my medical bills, Ali, under section 3 of the Non-fatal Offences Against the Person Act 1977. I’m going to need you to give a statement, evidence he did this to me …’
I can’t take much more. I roll my back down the cobble-blocked wall and the pain is a relief.
My kids. It’s nearly Christmas. ‘Jingle bells, jingle bells, in de arreslee …’ The rain is driving down harder now. I get that feeling I sometimes get in a small lift, I can’t breathe, I feel faint. My heart palpitates.
‘My stand-by flight is boarding soon, I got a seat ... I can’t talk, Ali, I’m in too much pain … You … you mind yourself, OK? This isn’t your fault. I’m so sorry.’ He ends the call.
What am I going to do? I can’t leave till Sunday. Oh my God, Colette and Michael. The show. My job. Owen’s job. They must have heard about this by now; the room is booked under the Danker name. The humiliation. I try Colin again. Still switched off. With shaking hands I dial Corina’s number.
‘Corina!’ I cry heavily when she answers.
‘Is he there? Is he there? Are you OK? Ali, I tried to warn you … oh, what’s happened? Oh my God, I’ve been out of my mind with worry!’ Corina is crying now too.
‘How did you know?’ I manage to sob the words out.
‘He came to get Jade at gymnastics rehearsals at eleven. I was there, at the early rehearsals. I was taking her picture … sending it to you ... He smashed my phone on the ground – he shattered the glass, the bastard – and dragged her away in front of the entire class and teachers. He called me awful names, you should have heard him. He was insane! You never logged out of your Facebook account on the family computer in the kitchen, Ali! He shoved our Facebook messages into my face. He knew I knew about Owen from them all. He has them printed! He screamed that he was going to find you. God, poor Jade, what she must think, she looked terrified. A parent had to ask him to leave. I called and called and called ... re-dialled for hours but you didn’t answer … I didn’t think to call Owen ... till now... I had his number... Oh why didn’t I think of that? I knew Colin was going to the airport.’ Her sobs are heavy. ‘Then I was too afraid to call any more in case he answered.’
‘Where are the kids, Corina?’ I beg her.
‘I don’t know, Ali,’ she says through shaking breaths. ‘But that Maia, the green woman, was with him all po-faced and giving me filthy looks. That bitch stood by and watched him abuse me in front of Jade!’
‘I need to wake up. This has to be a bad trip,’ I say. I move off down the street away from the carol singers, the rain slamming me in the face and I tell Corina all that has happened. Still on the phone, I find a free taxi back to the hotel. As I push open the door to the hotel, Colette and Michael are standing at the reception desk. I tell Corina I have to go and Colette comes straight over to me.
‘Are you OK?’ is her first question, but I can see she is beside herself. She wrings her hands repeatedly in front of her. Michael moves away to the end of the reception desk.
‘We have to pay three hundred and twenty euros for damage to the room. The television is broken, as is the shower door and the bedside lamps. The carpet is stained with blood in your room and in the corridor. We are a government-run centre, Ali. If we lose the support, we are closed down. We rely on state funding—’
‘I’ll pay it,’ I say, my chin is quivering and I am dripping wet.
‘I think you should leave this evening, Ali. Michael checked the last flight to Dublin: it’s at ten. The desk will call you a cab. I can’t see another way to deal with this. We will talk about this on Monday, OK? How is Owen?’ Her expression changes now to one of concern.
‘I don’t know for sure yet … He’s gone home,’ I manage, my hair drips water into my eyes.
Michael approaches with my case and leaves it at the hotel door beside the Christmas tree.
‘That’s all your stuff,’ is all he says and then I see his eyes widen and he seems to stumble. I follow his eyeline. It’s Colin. He walks straight to the reception desk.
‘Hi, I lost my wallet earlier? I was involved in that fight, room 141?’ he says very matter-of-factly.
Has he seen me? I can only see his side profile now, his nose bloody, unbandaged, swollen and cut.
‘Yes, Mr Devlin, we have your wallet.’ The receptionist in the navy blazer with gold buttons looks less than impressed as she bends under the counter. She stands with his brown wallet and extends her hand. The one Jade bought him last Christmas from TK Maxx. Colin takes it.
‘Thank you,’ he says and as he turns he sees us. Collette has moved closer to me.
Suddenly I feel really, really sorry for him. What have I done to him? His face is a mess and he looks so sad.
‘Colin …’ I move towards him.
‘Ali.’ He shoves his hands deep into his winter coat pocket. A coat that should be hanging on our coat peg in the hall right now, not here, not in this situation. It’s outlandish.
‘Nothing happened, I swear on the children’s lives,’ I whisper to him across the busy lobby.
‘It doesn’t matter any more. You’ve broken me, this is over.’ His voice is low and calm.
I can’t speak. There’s nothing to say.
‘I have a flight to catch. I need to get home to my children,’ he says.
And he’s gone.