Killing Cupid (29 page)

Emily rolled over on her side and hitched an eyebrow. ‘We’ll just have to snuggle up in one bed, won’t we?’

I came over to give her a kiss; Emily tried to catch my arm, to pull me onto the bed, but I resisted. Despite my complaint about the twin beds, I wasn’t really in the mood. My thoughts kept strobing, flicking from one thing to another:

Kathy falling from the fire escape… literary glory…Siobhan telling me I was a stalker… the dead rat in the jiffy bag… Elaine’s telephone call… Emily and Siobhan in the café…. the things I can spend my advance on… my mother telling me I’d never amount to anything… that time I hid in Siobhan’s wardrobe….

Round and round and round they go. And although my main worry involves Kathy and her fucking friend, and my main source of happiness is my literary success (oh, and Emily, of course – how could I forget?), it’s odd how many of the scenarios that whizz through my head involve Siobhan. It’s as if she’s still at the centre of my life, my nemesis. When I think about her sending the rat to Emily, and the magazines, and seeing them together, I feel so confused: angry and stupefied. I don’t know what to do about her. Should I confront her? Warn her to stop? I really don’t know. And I promised myself that while I was in Amsterdam I wouldn’t think about it. I wouldn’t think about her.

I looked at my girlfriend. ‘Let’s go and explore,’ I said.

We spent the afternoon doing touristy stuff: the Van Gogh museum, the Anne Frank house, which made Emily cry. We dodged bicycles and took a ride on a canal boat which was full of Japanese women clutching Louis Vuitton handbags. We walked through the red light district, and I remarked on how healthy the prostitutes in the windows looked, so unlike the stereotypical smack-addled whores who frequent films and TV shows. Emily asked me if I’d ever been with a prostitute and I lied. I didn’t tell her about the girl in Bangkok, five or six years ago, about the five minutes I spent in her company and the feeling of self-loathing that lasted a hell of a lot longer. Amsterdam was dirty and beautiful, and I fantasised about living in a canal-side apartment, writing novels about the strange and fascinating characters who paused on the bridges beneath.

I asked Emily if she fancied going to a coffee shop and having a smoke but she shook her head.

‘Dope makes me really sick,’ she said. ‘You can get some if you want but you’ll have to smoke it alone.’

I tutted, but tried not to let my irritation show. ‘Oh. It doesn’t matter. I’m not really into it. Let’s just go for a drink, yeah?’

We were near an Irish pub so we went inside and ordered Guinness and a couple of portions of chips, which we ate with mayonnaise. Fantastic. The Kings of Leon were playing in the background. Even better.

I drank my pint fast and it made my head spin a bit. From where we sat I had a pretty good view of the street. It was growing dark outside, the character of the city changing as the streetlights came on: the locals headed to their houses while the sex and drug tourists hurried out into the town, looking for the thrills they had to work harder to find at home. Emily was talking about how she’d felt in the Anne Frank museum, about how sickening it was that someone betrayed her and her family – when I suddenly felt as if I’d been punched in the stomach.

Because Siobhan walked past the window.

I stopped listening to what Emily was saying. I looked at my pint of Guinness like a drunk in a movie who’s just seen an alien or a talking pig. I must have hallucinated her. I must have. What the fuck would she be doing in Amsterdam? There was no way she could have followed us… was there? No, it must have just been someone who looked like her. I wanted to get up, go out into the street and check, just to be safe, but how could I? Emily was still talking about Anne Frank and I was still nodding along, even though, in my head I was hundreds of miles away.

But I had to know.

‘…and there was only a week to go before the end of the…’

‘I have to go to the loo,’ I said abruptly, standing up.

She blinked up at me, the sentence frozen in her mouth. ‘What?’

‘The loo. Sorry. Urgent.’

Luckily, the toilets were around the corner from where we were sitting, quite near the exit. I rushed off and, looking over my shoulder to make sure Emily couldn’t see me, I left the pub. Standing on the pavement outside I looked in the direction I’d seen ‘Siobhan’ go – up towards the Van Gogh museum. But the light was dim and I couldn’t see anyone who looked like her. I jogged forward a few paces, straining to see, but it was hopeless. I turned and went back into the pub, genuinely needing to pee now. Standing at the urinal, I muttered reassuring words to myself. The guy beside me zipped up quickly and scarpered. Then a memory came back to me – something that had been niggling me since we’d decided to come here. I remembered the email I’d deleted off Siobhan’s computer, in which her editor had mentioned an invite to Amsterdam. Maybe Siobhan came here sometimes, if her books were popular here. But it would still be a huge coincidence.

When I got back to our table, Emily said, ‘You were ages.’

‘Sorry. The guy standing next to me kept talking to himself and my bladder got shy.’

‘You poor thing. But you’re not shy of barmen, are you?’

I ordered another Guinness for Emily and a Diet Coke for myself. I figured it was better if I didn’t have anything else to drink. One more pint and I might see Kathy drag herself past the front door.

We stayed in the pub for a while (I didn’t stay teetotal for long; my next drink was black and thick and had a shamrock crafted into the head) and Emily and I reminisced about our relationship; how we’d met, etc, etc. I’m not sure if most couples do this: talk about their relationship after being together such a short time. Still, Emily is my longest-standing girlfriend by quite some way. She’s the record holder. I think I’m a lowly fourth in Emily’s longevity chart: some guy called Craig holds pole position with a chart-topping stay of three-and-a-half years, a length of time I can hardly imagine.

Would Emily and I still be an item 42 months down the line? We could be married, have a kid and a shared gym membership. Right now, I would kill for some stability and peace of mind. I looked at Emily again, a Guinness-foam moustache lining her upper lip, and tried to picture myself spending the rest of my life with her.

‘Shall we go to a club?’ I said, needing to get out of the pub.

‘A nightclub? That’s a good idea. There’s a really cool place just round the corner.’

‘How do you know it’s really cool?’

‘It said so in the guide book.’

The club was pretty empty at first, but filled up rapidly until it was a churnin’, bumpin’, grindin’ melee, made up of some of the coolest and sleaziest people I’d ever seen. Cannabis smoke hung in the air, and while Emily was in the toilet I was chatted up by a beautiful ‘woman’ with the biggest Adam’s apple I’ve ever seen. I joined Emily on the dancefloor and tried to move in time with the music, which I think I just about managed. Emily surprised me by being a fantastic dancer, all raised arms and swooshing hair and energy; guys were forming a disorderly queue to dance next to her. She was drenched with sweat by the time I managed to drag her away from a guy with a gold front tooth.

‘Hey,’ Emily laughed, ‘I was enjoying myself.’

‘So was that guy you were dancing with. Look.’ I pointed at the bulge in his trousers and Emily shrieked with wide-eyed laughter.

‘This is such a cool place,’ she said, lighting a cigarette. ‘Why don’t we move to Amsterdam?’

‘Well… we could.’

She kissed me, open-mouthed and sweaty. ‘We could come to this club every week.’

God, it was tempting. Get out of England. Escape and never go back. What a wonderful idea. As a writer, I could live anywhere. But then Emily reverted to boring reality and said, ‘If it wasn’t for my job,‘ and the idea fizzled out as quickly as it had been born.

Something about this exchange really annoyed me. It seemed so typical of that small-minded attitude to life that I was always so determined not to have. Dashing your dreams before they have a chance to live, just because trying to make them real would take effort and might be scary. I’ve always tried to be different: leaving my hometown the second I could, going travelling, pursuing my literary ambitions…okay, so I’ve also got myself into a lot of trouble, especially recently, but no-one could ever say my life has been boring. But when I looked at Emily, I saw – and I really do hate to say this – a glimpse of the future I never wanted. I had seen it sitting in the pub. Emily had narrow horizons; and, worse, she was weak. Her reaction to the magazines and the rats had started a train of thought that had been running through the back of mind for a while, coming to the forefront now. I have always admired women who fight; strong women. And although part of me wanted to protect Emily and hated to see her suffering, there was another part of me that wanted to tell her to, well, be a man.

I hated myself for having these thoughts, and as soon as they surfaced I told myself not to be stupid. Emily was the best thing in my life, I reminded myself. The only woman who ever loved me.

It was just after midnight when we got back to the hotel. As we approached, walking up the narrow street that led alongside the canal, past a dodgy-in-extremis-looking basement coffee shop and various homes and offices, I became vaguely aware of a couple of guys standing outside the entrance of our hotel. There was another tourist couple ahead of us, and I saw these men say something to them before they went into the hotel. My first thought was that they might be more drug dealers.

As we neared the hotel entrance, I realised that the two guys were eyeing us – or rather, eyeing me. They were both tall, blond and muscular and pretty imposing. A couple of brick shithouses. I felt a premonitory stab of fear.

Emily let go of my hand and started to look in her bag for our room key, head down, ignoring the men. Then, as we stepped past them, one of them said, in a light Dutch accent, ‘Alex?’

I automatically turned, just as anyone would if they heard their name, immediately affirming that I was indeed called Alex, and the taller and least ugly of the two took a step towards me and punched me in the stomach.

I doubled up, gasping for air, feeling like I was drowning. I was aware of Emily a few paces ahead of me, and the two men forming a wall between us. One of the men leaned towards me and said very quietly, in his best Hollywood English, ‘We don’t want shits like you in our city.’ I had a horrible sense of déjà vu, and then he shoved me and I toppled over, landing on my side, my cheek scraping the asphalt. I could hear Emily, saying, ‘What are you doing?’, a hysterical lilt in her voice, and the second brick shithouse – the one who hadn’t hit me yet – saying to her, ‘What are
you
doing – with a creep like this?’

I tried to get up, but a kick in the chest returned me to the pavement. I closed my eyes and the world swam. I could taste blood and hear a high-pitched whine. When I opened my eyes I didn’t see stars – just the gutter, a crumpled cigarette packet inches from my face. I was still gasping for breath, curling up to protect myself, all instinct now, my body taking over from my confused and shocked brain.

Brick Shithouse One bent down and said, ‘This is only a taster.’ He put his hand on the side of my head and pressed it hard against the ground. I opened my eyes and looked at him, maybe hoping that eye contact would make him realise that I was more than a punchbag. His eyes were cold; actually, he looked sleepy, his pupils diluted. I knew I would never forget his face.

Emily was still making noise but I couldn’t see her from where I was. I didn’t know if the guy was holding her back or if she was holding herself back through fear. I tried to turn my head to see but the first shithouse still had his hand on my head, his thumb digging into my scalp. I swivelled my eyes towards him again and croaked a single word: ‘Please.’

He seemed to contemplate something for a moment, then he nodded, apparently satisfied, and stood up.

After that, the two of them jogged away, calmly.

Chapter 31

Siobhan

I slept like a baby – pot does that to me – but woke up groggy and muzzy-headed, and with a nagging unidentifiable feeling of unease. It stayed with me during my solo breakfast in the small but bright dining room, nobody else around except a silent waiter clearing up the croissant crumbs of the earlier breakfasters. What couldn’t I remember?

Snogging Evan – well, that was a mistake. But at least I had the good sense not to let him come back with me. Telling him my problems – nothing wrong with that either. It was very cathartic.

I don’t think I’ll go out of my way to see him again, though. In fact, I’m going to steer clear of that coffee shop. And something is definitely niggling me about what happened last night.

It wasn’t until I was in a cab on the way to lunch with my Dutch editor that I remembered:

I gave Evan Alex’s name and his hotel. After he’d said he’d ‘sort Alex out’ for me if I wanted. Oh God.

I’m sure Evan wouldn’t really have done anything, though. I’m sure he was only trying to act all macho to impress me. Once he realized there wasn’t a shag in it for him, I’m sure he wouldn’t have bothered hauling ass all the way over to Alex’s hotel….

Would he?

Now that I think about it, there was an awful lot of talk last night of heads being kicked in and retribution being exacted. Not by Evan, though. I wouldn’t have stayed up late flirting with a thug; I mean, I do have some standards. But what if his mates egged him on? And I suppose there is the remotest possibility that I very slightly exaggerated the wrongs Alex and his girlfriend had perpetrated on me. Well…if I’m honest, I made them sound like Ian Brady and Myra Hindley.

Even if Evan did do something to Alex, I don’t have anything to feel guilty about. He asked for it.

It’s just, I suppose, I feel a little bit – what? It’s hard to pin down but weirdly enough, I think I feel a little bit worried about Alex.

I was thinking about all this so hard that I didn’t even notice that my cab had pulled up outside what looked like a sandwich shop.