The Girl Who Wouldn't Die Part 11

Ella's heart pounded. She felt like somebody had clamped her head in a vice and was squeezing hard. On the one hand, his advances felt like violence. Danny already had his tough cut of stewing steak but now he wanted to carve off his pound of sirloin too. Ella's flesh hadn't been on the menu when she'd agreed to take on Detective Gordon the Gargoyle's 'mission'. She had algebra to do.

On the other hand, she didn't want to betray her real intentions to Danny. Last thing she needed was to be tailed by that weirdo, Jez; her meet with the Gargoyle discovered and reported back. Vengeance would come to Let.i.tia's door in the form of another Molotov c.o.c.ktail. A flaming apocalypse of a drink that even a rum'n'c.o.ke chaser wouldn't douse. Also, it had been one year, two months and fifteen days since Ella had dumped her first boyfriend. Danny was fine. She was no virgin and she knew the score ... She felt a spasm of antic.i.p.ation.

Then, feeling both used and elated afterwards: 'I thought me and you were friends!' Tonya protested. 'And now you been f.u.c.king my fella behind my back, innit, you s.k.a.n.k!'

Danny was conciliatory. 'Hey, hey. I got enough love for both of yous, yeah?' He grabbed his crotch. 'No need to get feisty. I got something special lined up. An important job. I need both of you in my inner circle. Know what I mean?'

Not really, a.r.s.ehole. Ella nodded, curiosity sated for now.

But her need overcame her scepticism. She had started to feel Stockholm-syndrome-s.e.xy. Let.i.tia's baby was sweet sixteen now and only a shadow of that mother lingered. So, Ella saw the invitation to join Danny and his girl as a warm bonus in her new life of subterfuge and pretence. Teenage kicks. And maybe it had been a happy compromise for Tonya too. Ella could tell that she didn't trust Danny not to walk off with her into the urban sunset.

Now the three of them shuffled around on the creaking Argos divan. Danny's bed, so Danny led. Two years' worth of dust on the MFI bedroom furniture. High five. For real. She didn't tell the Gargoyle about these bits.

'What is he planning?' the Gargoyle asked, staring straight ahead in the Ford, exhaling cigarette smoke off to the side, where it hit the window and left a blueish-yellow patina.

Ella looked at the Gargoyle's whisky drinker's nose. It confirmed her suspicion that life chasing Dannys was stressful. She carefully noted his frayed collar and the grime on the cuffs of his overcoat.

'I don't know,' she said. 'He said it was something big.'

The Gargoyle fixed her with soft, bloodshot eyes. 'Be careful,' he said. 'Are you being careful?'

Ella nodded. 'I'm right in there. They haven't got a clue. They trust me.'

The Gargoyle patted her hand. It was a fatherly pat but her eyes still flicked to his crotch. Just to check.

'When the time comes, will you let us mic you up?'

Ella lifted her eyes and stared blankly out of the windscreen. It was leafy here. Near school and away from the sharp scrutiny of Jez, who moved around the estate like an insomniac puma in the undergrowth. Danny's twenty-four-seven sentry. But this was not his territory, thank G.o.d.

'Look, this is very difficult for me. I don't want to lose my ...' She searched for the words. She'd read them in a book. She wanted the Gargoyle to understand. '... my moral compa.s.s. I think that's the phrase, isn't it?'

The Gargoyle nodded slowly and lit another cigarette. 'You'll get counselling when you've finished. I know it's hard. We'll look after you.'

She could feel tears rolling hot down her cheeks now. She was drowning in guilt. The shame of enjoying the excitement and low-rent glamour. She was Danny's cheap teen p.o.r.no-queen. Just like Tonya.

'All I want to do is get some ...' The words jostled for s.p.a.ce in the back of her throat before they came out. '... s.p.a.ce. I need silence and ... and ... calm and ... clean. I want to study and just be left to ...' She flapped her hand in front of her face. Ella was an expert in holding it together but, today, the seams were all coming apart. She shook her head violently. 'I'm just really struggling to ...'

'Cope?'

'No.'

'Sleep?'

'No.' The Gargoyle wouldn't let her get a word in edgeways. Shut up! 'I'm struggling to do my schoolwork.' There. It was out.

'Schoolwork? Is that all?' He started to chuckle quietly.

She looked at him dumbfounded. b.a.s.t.a.r.d! He just didn't understand. 'Is that all? I've got my GCSE mocks next week. I'm in the middle of revising. That's everything.'

She stiffened. At that moment, she realised the Gargoyle couldn't throw her the buoy she needed to keep her afloat. She would have to save herself. An iron discipline and a backbone of steel. That's what I have and that's all I need.

'Do you want to duck out?' the Gargoyle asked, offering her a blue packet of Kleenex. 'I know we're asking a lot. But it's-'

'No,' Ella said. 'This is about more than saving my mother's a.r.s.e. I'll see this through because it's the right thing to do.'

'Good girl.'

Chapter 12.

Amsterdam, 10 January

From: George McKenzie To: Sally Wright11.28 Subject: Stuff going down Hiya Sally, Thanks for your emails.

Things have gone a bit weird here with the attacks in Amsterdam and Utrecht. But I'm okay. Paul van den Bergen just wanted some insight into political stuff. I've just left it at that, don't worry.

Just thought I'd give you the heads up: I've got into a spot of bother with Dr Fennemans. It's nothing big, but I have to sit his lectures out until the start of next term and go for one-to-ones with him instead. A fate worse than death. The guy's a misogynist idiot.

Everything else is fine.

George PS: Did my mother say what she wanted to speak to me so urgently about?

George stared at the email. Her finger hovered over the mouse b.u.t.ton. Part of her didn't want to begin a dialogue about being in hot water with Fennemans. Riling Sally would risk killing the Cambridge goose and its golden eggs. But it made sense to warn the senior tutor of the fracas up front, before Fennemans had chance to malign her.

George read what she had written again. And again. She dusted the screen and her keyboard.

'Just send it!' she shouted, finally forcing her finger to override her ambivalent brain.

Next, she listened again to the angry message left on her mobile phone two days into the new term by the PhD student who was the editor of The Moment blog. She could hear the fury in his normally pa.s.sive voice.

'George. It's Bert de Vries. I'm not going to take your post down, because The Moment believes in freedom of speech, but I'll tell you now, it's eloquent but it sucks. I'm really really annoyed at you. We've put a disclaimer on the blog. I don't want trouble with the b.l.o.o.d.y police over pro-terror writing. Call me. I want an explanation.'

George growled and threw her phone onto her bed. She lay on her chaise longue, staring at the cracks in her ornate ceiling. Melancholy threatened but she pushed it aside.

'I'm doing the right thing. Bert's opinion doesn't count,' she told the ceiling. Sat up abruptly. 'And Fennemans ... well, he can just f.u.c.k off.'

Briefly she wondered about her mother. The unanswered demand for attention had been trying to force its way out of the confines of her paranoia box since Sally had mentioned her making contact. George kept steadfastly pus.h.i.+ng it back inside. There's no room for her bulls.h.i.+t now. Screw her.

George stood and looked out of her window. Her stomach growled but she knew she had only two tangerines in the food cupboard. She checked her hair and carefully ringed her eyes with black eyeliner. She threw on her winter boots and her sheepskin coat. Ad would have food. Then she remembered it was Sat.u.r.day. Ad would have the Milkmaid in tow.

Trying and failing to quell the burgeoning tide of jealousy that was rising within her, George clattered down the stairs. It was dry outside. Her breath steamed as the mid-January air bit into her chest. There, in the red light district with its narrow alleys and lascivious back streets, she felt suddenly bricked in; suffocated.

She resolved to cheer herself up with some flowers. Pulling on her hood and dragging hard on her cigarette, she pushed past j.a.panese tourists, families out shopping with small kids and coach parties full of Americans being led by umbrella-toting guides to the wide banks of the Singel ca.n.a.l. The flower market was in full swing. Amongst the hyacinth smells and cupcake colours, George's heartbeat started to slow.

She bought a bunch of bright yellow tulips and a packet of syrup waffles. She wandered aimlessly among the crowds in silence, snaffling down the sweet, late breakfast she didn't even like. Drinking in the hotchpotch of houseboats, four- and five-storey houses and Dutch faces, she tried to evoke the delight and wonder she had felt when she had first set eyes on that place. It had reminded her of the pots of pansies and petunias her mother helped her to grow as a child. The time before, when she was small and things were good. One day, she would have her own garden where she could grow delicate, beautiful things.

Peering ahead, George's gaze fell on a young couple holding hands. They looked like a clipping out of a wedding magazine. Picture perfect, sta-pressed, spray-starched. The lavender-scented love of the blonde and long-limbed. Ad and Astrid, tiptoeing through the tulips. Seeing them was ripping a Band-Aid off an already angry wound. She turned abruptly, with the intention of heading back towards the Cracked Pot Coffee Shop.

But then she spotted something in her peripheral vision that made her pulse quicken. Short-term memories started snapping into place. It was the third time since beginning her stroll up Singel that somebody had bobbed into the shadows when she had turned around quickly. Too tall and broad to be a woman.

Decision time. Fight or flight?

George realised she was one of a dwindling number of foreign students. Feeble prey for an unseen predator. She quickened her pace. Hastened towards familiar turf and friendly faces. Was she still being followed? She turned around surrept.i.tiously. Her pursuer had definitely slipped inside a flower stall again. Only about five metres behind her now.

By the time she reached the fringes of the red light district, she was almost running. She had to check herself, slow up, appear unruffled and in control. But as she reached the entrance to the Cracked Pot Coffee Shop, her instincts screamed at her that somebody was standing right behind her.

She stopped short and turned around quickly, keys wedged between each finger on her right hand in a makes.h.i.+ft knuckleduster. She was ready. Heart drumming inside her chest.

Ad sat in the cafe in silence. He studied Astrid's face as she ate her ham and cheese sandwich. Her manners were impeccable. She took small bites and dropped no crumbs. She didn't forget herself and start to speak with her mouth full, churning her food around like clothes in a was.h.i.+ng machine on spin. Unlike George. She wore a miniskirt with leggings underneath that emphasised her gazelle-like legs. Her straight blonde hair was tied using a leather hair barrette. It pushed its way out of its bondage to form a perfect bouncy fan. Effortlessly elegant. Unlike George. Her skin was blus.h.i.+ngly clear. Her blue eyes were s.h.i.+ny. She was, to all intents and purposes, a real Dutch beauty. Unlike George. And yet, Ad mused, Astrid was too perfect, like a well-groomed Afghan hound at a dog show. He felt instantly guilty for thinking such a thing.

'So, my parents and your parents had dinner last weekend round ours,' she said, stopping between mouthfuls. 'It was so funny because your mum and my mum ... can you guess?'

'No.'

'They had worn the same skirt!' She started to laugh.

Ad observed that it was a delighted t.i.tter. Even if the observation had merited it, there was no lecherous guffaw, no hiccoughing, no silent heaving. No s.m.u.tty anecdote to follow.

'Fancy that,' Astrid said.

Ad smiled and tried to imagine his blousy mother wearing something as equally floral and polyester as his future mother-in-law. Had they electrocuted each other with static when they embraced? The mental image crumbled as he noticed Astrid leaning towards him, expecting a response.

'Fancy,' he said. 'How's work?'

Astrid pushed her plate away with the second half of her sandwich untouched. 'This new girl has started. The manager has put me in charge. I'm showing her the ropes on laces, waterproofing spray and colour restorer. It's the till next week. I've got to explain how the store room is ordered.'

Ad nodded sagely and kept nodding as Astrid expanded on how the credit card of local councillor, Andre de Vos, had been refused when he tried to buy loafers, and how Mrs Kooper had bought her son the wrong-sized shoes for school, despite the advice she was given. After ten minutes of uninterrupted footwear-based reporting with very little drawing of breath, Astrid paused and c.o.c.ked her head on the side inquisitively.

'Are you listening, darling?' she asked.

Ad had, however, been thinking not of Mrs Kooper but of Klaus Biedermeier, who had just walked into the cafe, presumably fresh from the flower market as he was clutching a large bunch of roses wrapped in green paper.

Klaus strode confidently over to a group of well-dressed, loud students. Ad recognised them as mainly law students. They were all members of het corps the conservative student fraternity, comprised predominantly of the sons and daughters of solicitors, judges, surgeons and politicians. Right-wing old money. Jasper was right when he said the toffs hang out here, he thought. Now, how am I going to play this?

Klaus gave his bouquet with a flourish to a very blonde girl wearing pearls, who blushed, said something and caused great jollity among the group. Ad strained to hear their conversation above Astrid's gossip about Lies Oostendorp's wedding dress choice.

'We thought you weren't coming,' one of the men said in English laced with a Rotterdam accent. He was big. He looked like he rowed or lifted weights or just ate too much stamppot.

Klaus pulled out a chair loudly enough to make the other diners turn around. He straddled it in a manner that said he owned the s.p.a.ce and tucked his hands behind his round, blond head. When he spoke, all Ad heard was Klaus saying also in English but with a clipped German accent 'market' and 'most beautiful girl, ha ha ha'. He proceeded to turn his back to Ad and hold court with his cronies. Ad could no longer hear what was being said, much to his chagrin. His ears zoned back into Astrid's excited chatter.

'... enjoyed it so much at church on Sunday,' Astrid said. She frowned and waved her hand in front of Ad's face. 'Are you listening to me at all?'

Ad looked into her questioning eyes and stroked her cheek. 'Yes, love. Every word.' A plan started to take shape, quickly sharpened by the oxygen that his pounding heart was speeding to his brain. He reached out for Astrid's hand. 'Hey, come with me. I want you to meet someone,' he said.

'Oh, you're not going to introduce me to one of your intellectual nerdy pals, are you?' she said. 'Not another of those foreign students. They all reek of garlic and I can't understand a single word of what they say.'

'You might like this one,' Ad said, pulling Astrid towards his target and wondering if Herr Biedermeier would sniff out his subterfuge, even with a perfect Aryan girlfriend on the arm.

The journey across the cafe was tough. His common sense told him to sit back down and mind his own business, keep Astrid away from a possible killer. But in a disobedient corner of his mind lurked the insistent voice of George. Cosy up to Klaus. See what he and his n.a.z.i friends get up to. He thought about Ratan's severed foot and decided that the small risk to Astrid of just saying h.e.l.lo to a suspect was worth it. After all, he could protect her. Couldn't he?

Ad could feel his cheeks burning hot as he approached the large gathering that now seemed to be hanging on Klaus' every word. One by one, the well-heeled law and accountancy students all looked up at Ad until, finally, Klaus himself turned around. He was smiling. It made his white scars, like hairline fractures over his cheekbones, change shape. They etched a new, relaxed pattern on his face. When Klaus spotted Ad, however, his smile faltered. The scars settled into their usual map of haughty condescension.

'Well, if it isn't Karelse, our little lefty freedom fighter.' As he said this, Klaus looked Astrid up and down with the sharp-eyed scrutiny of a hungry cheetah sizing up a meal. 'And who is this?'

Ad made the introductions. He felt sure he detected in Klaus a hint of admiration ... or was it jealousy? Astrid was a very beautiful girl. n.o.body ever failed to be wooed by her dazzling smile or the winning, soft tones of her voice. Everybody loved Astrid. Mostly.

Klaus, suddenly the German gentleman, pulled out his chair and offered it to Astrid. He picked a pink gerbera from the little gla.s.s vase on the table and gave it to her. 'Frulein,' he said with a flourish. He clicked his fingers at a waiter. 'What will you have to drink?'

Astrid's face turned quickly crimson, in contrast to the blonde girl holding Klaus' roses, whose face was turning quickly green, presumably at the Prussian prince's treatment of the interloper.

Ad placed a protective hand on his girlfriend's shoulder. 'We're not stopping for a drink just now,' he told Klaus. 'But I wanted to come over and pa.s.s on my condolences about Joachim.'

The students at the table all looked down at their laps. Klaus seemed to remember his grief. Ad tried to make a mental note of every physical change as he responded to mention of Joachim's death. His eyes seemed to darken. His shoulders drooped slightly. His lips narrowed to a line. Was this grief or was he merely a great actor?

'Yes,' Klaus said. 'Thank you. It's difficult for me to put my sorrow into words right now.'

Ad couldn't work out if the stilted, formal ring to Klaus' words was a symptom of there being no substance to his grief or just a symptom of being a German, speaking English haltingly. But the show of emotion seemed too pat on the heels of his exhibition of chivalry and jollity.

Klaus thumbed his chin, as if considering something. Then he said, 'The police won't release Joachim's remains. It's screwed up. Joachim wasn't a terrorist. And no way was he secretly rubbing shoulders with a bunch of towel-heads. So we're having a memorial service for him. If you want to come ...'

Ad nodded, looked at his watch and motioned to Astrid that it was time for them to leave. 'I'd like that very much,' he said.

'But don't bother bringing the English loudmouth. I notice you've not been with her the last week.'

Ad stifled a smile. George's expulsion from cla.s.s offered itself as a fortuitous and vital piece in the new jigsaw, which depicted Ad as a fledgling right-winger and Klaus as his potential new guru. It seemed too easy.

'We've fallen out,' he said.

'Over that disgraceful, pro-Muslamic blogpost that everybody's talking about?' Klaus asked.

His sharp blue eyes seemed to be searching for the truth in Ad. But Ad knew he was not a natural liar. He hoped that Klaus wouldn't see that his hands were shaking slightly.

'Yes. I suppose so. I realised she wasn't ...' He didn't know how to finish the sentence. Surrounded by all those preppy law students whose soft, cashmere exteriors almost certainly concealed hearts already compacted into stone, he felt like he needed to leave. Quickly. Before Astrid contradicted him.

Klaus nodded. He'd clearly said enough. 'Good. Good. Interesting,' Klaus said as he looked at Astrid and smiled. 'I'll be in touch.'

Ad was not entirely sure he could rely on his legs to carry him out of the cafe but when he got outside, he felt triumphant and kissed Astrid, silently thanking her for her unwitting bravura performance.