The Night Ferry (27 page)

There is a pharmacy in the heart of de Wal etjes, explains Sister Vogel. The pharmacist is a friend of hers. This is where she sent Zala. She was carrying a note.

Turning each corner I expect to see a flash of pink or her blue hijab coming toward me. I pass a greengrocer and catch the scent of oranges, which makes me think of Hassan. What wil happen to Samira now? Who wil look after her?

I turn into Oudekerksteeg. There is stil no sign of Zala. A touch on my arm makes me turn. For a second I don’t recognize Hokke, who is wearing a woolen cap. With his light beard it makes him look like a North Sea fisherman.

“Hel o, my friend.” He looks at me closely. “What have you done to yourself?” His finger traces the bruising on my cheek.

“I had a fight.”

“Did you win?”

“No.”

I look over his shoulder, scanning the square for Zala. My sense of urgency makes him turn his own head.

“Are you stil looking for your Afghani girl?”

“No, a different one this time.”

It makes me sound careless—as though I lose people al the time. Hokke has been sitting in a café. Zala must have passed by him but he doesn’t remember her.

“Perhaps I can help you look.”

I fol ow him, scanning the pedestrians, until we reach the pharmacy. The smal shop has narrow aisles and neatly stacked shelves. A man in a striped shirt and white coat is serving customers at a counter. When he recognizes Hokke he opens his arms and they embrace. Old friends.

“A deaf girl—I’d remember her,” he announces, breaking into English.

“She had a note from Sister Vogel.”

The pharmacist yel s to his assistant. A head pops out from behind a stand of postcards. More Dutch. A shrug. Nobody has seen her.

Hokke fol ows me back onto the street. I walk a few paces and stop, leaning against a wal . A faint vibration is coming off me; a menacing internal thought spinning out of control. Zala has not run away. She would not leave Samira wil ingly. Ever.

Police headquarters is on one of the outer canals, west of the city. Fashioned by the imagination of an architect, it looks scrubbed clean and casts a long shadow across the canal. The glass doors open automatical y. CCTV cameras scan the foyer.

A message is sent upstairs to Spijker. His reply comes back: I’m to wait in the reception area. None of my urgency has any effect on the receptionist, who has a face like the farmer’s daughter in
American Gothic
. This is not my jurisdiction. I have no authority to make demands or throw my weight around.

Hokke offers to keep me company. At no point has he asked how I found Samira or what happened to Ruiz. He is content to accept whatever information is offered rather than seeking it out.

So much has happened in the past week yet I feel as though I haven’t moved. It’s like the clock on the wal above the reception desk, with its white face and thick black hands that refuse to move any faster.

Samira is somewhere above me. I don’t imagine there are many basements in Amsterdam—a city that seems to float on fixed pontoons held together by bridges. Perhaps it is slowly sinking into the ooze like a Venice of the north.

I can’t sit stil . I should be at the hospital with Ruiz. I should be starting my new job in London or resigning from it.

Across the foyer the double doors of a lift slide open. There are voices, deep, sonorous, laughing. One of them belongs to Yanus. His left eye is swol en and partial y closed. Head injuries are becoming a fashion statement. He isn’t handcuffed, nor is he being escorted by police.

The man beside him must be his lawyer. Large and careworn, with a broad forehead and broader arse, his rumpled suit has triple vents and permanent creases.

Yanus looks up at me and smiles with his thin lips.

“I am very sorry for this misunderstanding,” he says. “No hard feelings.”

He offers me his hand. I stare at it blankly. Spijker appears at his left shoulder, standing fractional y behind him.

Yanus is stil talking. “I hope Mr. Ruiz is being looked after. I am very sorry I stabbed him.”

My eyes haven’t left Spijker. “What are you doing?”

“Mr. Yanus is being released. We may need to question him again later.”

The fat lawyer is tapping his foot on the floor impatiently. It has the effect of making his face wobble. “Samira Khan has confirmed that Mr. Yanus is her fiancé. She is pregnant by him.” His tone is extravagantly pompous, with just a hint of condescension. “She has also given a statement corroborating his account of what happened last night.”

“No!”

“Fortunately, for you, Mr. Yanus has agreed not to make a formal complaint against you or your col eague for assault, malicious wounding and abducting his fiancée. In return, the police have decided not to lay charges against him.”

“Our investigations are continuing,” counters Spijker.

“Mr. Yanus has cooperated ful y,” retorts the fat lawyer, dismissively.

Lena Caspar is so smal that I almost don’t see her behind him. I can sense my gaze flicking from face to face like a child waiting for a grown-up to explain. Yanus has withdrawn his hand. Almost instinctively he slides it inside his jacket, where his knife would normal y be.

I imagine that I must look dazed and dumbstruck, but the opposite is true. I can see myself reflected in the dozens of glass panels around the wal s and the news hasn’t altered my demeanor at al . Internal y, the story is different. Of al the possible outcomes, this one couldn’t be anticipated.

“Let me talk to Samira.”

“That’s not possible.”

Lena Caspar puts her hand on my arm. “She doesn’t want to talk to anyone.”

“Where is she?”

“In the care of the Immigration and Naturalization Service.”

“Is she going to be deported?”

The fat lawyer answers for her. “My client is applying for a visa that wil al ow his fiancée to remain in the Netherlands.”

“She’s
not
his fiancée!” I snap.

The lawyer inflates even further (it barely seems possible). “You are very fortunate, Miss Barba, that my client is so wil ing to forgive. You would otherwise be facing very serious charges. Mr. Yanus now demands that you leave him alone, along with his fiancée. Any attempt by you to approach either of them wil be taken very seriously.” Yanus looks almost embarrassed by his own generosity. His entire persona has softened. The cold, naked, unflinching hatred of last night has gone. It’s like watching a smooth ocean after a storm front has passed. He extends his hand again. There is something in it this time—my mobile phone and passport. He hands them to me and turns away. He and the fat lawyer are leaving.

I look at Spijker. “You know he’s lying.”

“It makes no difference,” he replies.

Mrs. Caspar wants me to sit down.

“There must be something,” I say, pleading with her.

“You have to understand. Without Samira’s testimony there
is
no case to answer, no evidence of forced pregnancies or a black market in embryos and unborn babies. The proof might lie in DNA or paternity tests, but these can’t be done without Samira’s permission and invasive surgery that could endanger the twins.”

“Zala wil confirm my story.”

“Where is she?”

The entrance doors slide open. The fat lawyer goes first. Yanus pul s a light blue handkerchief from his pocket and wipes his forehead. I recognize the fabric. He rol s it over and over in his fingers. It’s not a handkerchief. It’s a headscarf. Zala’s hijab!

Spijker sees me moving and holds me back. I fight against his arms, yel ing accusations out the door. Yanus turns and smiles, showing a few teeth at the sides of his mouth. A shark’s smile.

“See in his hand—the scarf,” I cry. “That’s why she lied.”

Mrs. Caspar steps in front of me. “It’s too late, Alisha.”

Spijker releases my arms slowly and I shake his fingers loose. He’s embarrassed at having touched me. There’s something else in his demeanor. Understanding. He
believes
me!

He had no choice but to release Yanus.

Frustration, disappointment and anger fil me until I feel like screaming. They have Zala. Samira is sure to fol ow. For al the bruises and bloodshed, I haven’t even slowed them down.

I’m like Wile E. Coyote, flattened beneath a rock, listening to the Road Runner’s infernal, triumphant, infuriating “beep, beep!”
6

Ruiz’s skin is a pal id gray and his eyes are bloodshot from the morphine. The years have mugged him in his sleep and he looks every one of his sixty birthdays.

“I knew you were gonna be okay,” I say. “Your hide is thicker than a rhino’s.”

“Are you saying my arse looks big in these pajamas?”

“Not in
those
pajamas.”

The curtains are open and the remains of the day are col ecting on the far horizon.

It might be the morphine or his ridiculous male pride, but the DI keeps bragging about the number of stitches he needed in his chest and arm. Next we’l be comparing scars. I don’t need a comparison—mine are bigger than his.

Why is it always a competition with men? Their egos are so fragile or their hormones so strong that they have to prove themselves. What tossers!

I give him a big wet kiss on his cheek. He’s lost for words.

“I brought you something, sir.”

He gives me a quick look, unsure whether to trust me. I pul a bottle of Scotch from a paper bag. It’s a private joke. When I was lying in hospital with a busted spine Ruiz brought me a bottle. It’s stil the only time I’ve ever had alcohol. A one-off drink, sucked through a crazy straw, that made my eyes water and my throat burn. What do people see in alcohol?

I crack the seal and pour him a drink, adding a little water.

“You’re not having one?”

“Not this time. You can have mine.”

“That’s very generous of you.”

A nurse walks in. The DI hides the glass. I hide the bottle. She hands him a little plastic cup with two pil s inside. The fact that we’ve stopped talking and look guilty encourages her to pause at the door. She says something in Dutch. It might be “bottom’s up,” but I doubt it.

“I think I’m going to stay here,” says Ruiz. “The food is much better than the NHS muck and the nurses have a certain charm. They remind me of my house mistresses at boarding school.”

“That sounds disturbingly like a sexual fantasy.”

He half grins. “Not completely.”

He takes another sip. “Have you ever thought about what you’d like to happen when you die? The arrangements.”

“I’ve made a wil .”

“Yeah, but did you stipulate anything for the funeral? Cremation or burial or having your ashes sprinkled off the end of Margate Pier?”

“Not specifical y.” This is getting rather morbid.

“I want my ashes put into a rocket.”

“Sure, I’l put in a cal to NASA.”

“In a
firework
rocket. I want to be blasted into a thousand fal ing stars. They can do that now—put ashes in fireworks. I read about it somewhere.”

“Go out with a bang.”

“A blaze of glory.”

He smiles and holds out his glass for more. “Not yet, of course.”

“Of course.”

The truth is,
I have
thought about it. Dying. During the autumn and winter of my discontent—the months of surgery and physiotherapy, when I couldn’t wash, feed or care for myself—a smal , secret, childlike part of me feared that I would never walk again. And an unspoken, guilt-ridden, adult part of me decided I would rather die if that happened.

Everyone thinks I’m so strong. They expect me to face autumns and winters like that and bitch-slap them down, make them heel. I’m not so strong. I only pretend.

“I had a phone cal from Miranda today,” the DI announces. “I stil don’t know how she got the number or knew I was in hospital. As far as I can tel I was unconscious for most of yesterday.” His eyes narrow. “Try not to look so sheepish, my little lambkin.”

“I told you she stil cares about you.”

“But can’t
live
with me.”

“That’s because you’re grumpy.”

“And you’re an expert in these things, I suppose.”

“Wel ‘New Boy’ Dave has asked me to marry him.” The statement blurts from me, unplanned, spontaneous.

Ruiz ponders it. “I didn’t think he had the courage.”

“You think he’s afraid of me?”

“Any man with any sense should be a little bit afraid of you.”

“Why?”

“I mean that in the nicest possible way.” His eyes are dancing.

“You said I was too sharp for him.”

“And you said that any man who could
fit
into your pants couldn’t
get
into your pants.”

“He loves me.”

“That’s a good start. How about you?”

I can’t answer. I don’t know.

It’s strange talking about love. I used to hate the word. Hate is too strong. I was sick of reading about it in books, hearing it in songs, watching it in films. It seemed such a huge burden to place on another person—to love them; to give them something so unbelievably fragile and expect them not to break it or lose it or leave it behind on the No. 96 bus.

I thought I had a choice. Fal in love. Don’t fal in love. He loves me. He loves me not. See, I’m not so smart!

My mind drifts back to Samira. I don’t know what to do. I’m out of ideas. Up until now I’ve been convinced that I would find Cate’s babies and then—what then? What did I imagine would happen? Cate broke the law. She rented a womb. Perhaps she didn’t realize that Samira would be forced to cooperate. I can give her the benefit of
that
doubt.

Cate always walked close to the edge. Closer to death, closer to life. She had a crazy streak. Not al the time, just occasional y. It’s like when the wind changes suddenly before a storm and kids go wild, running around in circles like swirling scraps of paper caught in the updraft. Cate would get that same gleam in her eye and drift onto the wrong side of crazy.

She is more memory than reality. She belongs to a time of teenage crushes, first kisses, crowded lecture hal s and smoky pubs. Even if she had lived, we might have had nothing in common except the past.

I should let it go. When Ruiz is wel enough, I’l take him home. I’l swal ow my pride and take whatever job I’m offered or I’l marry Dave and we’l live in Milford-on-Sea. I shouldn’t have come to Amsterdam. Why did I ever imagine I could make a difference? I can’t bring Cate back. Yet for al this, I stil can’t shake one fundamental question: What wil happen to the babies?