The Kindness (16 page)

She was making such a thing of it. He had to keep asking her to listen, hopping with impatience to tell her a particular piece of good news: ‘Now, if you just shut up for one moment . . .’

She brought steaming toad-in-the-hole from the oven, the oven glove on her slender arm making him recall the leather gauntlet she’d worn for the hawk. ‘Listen to me,’ he said.

He had a yo-yo for Mira from Amsterdam, one that lit up when it was spun. She was back to normal, just a little snotty, and instantly upset that she couldn’t manage the yo-yo herself. She was too short for the string and he stood her on the kitchen chair and put his hand around hers so they could make it spin and spark together. Julia stopped being cross about his new career as an international drug smuggler. She was heating onion gravy for the toad-in-the-hole. ‘I think I’ve sorted out a place for you to stay in London. With Karl’s dad . . .’ She stopped stirring, a hand to her forehead. ‘Oh, God,’ she said.

A full seven months this half-smoked spliff has been lying here. A sudden impulse makes him slide it from the tube. He sniffs it, rubs away the charcoal from the burnt end. He finds a lighter and takes it to the window, leans out. Just lighting it makes him cough so hard that his eyes water. He takes two more drags, holds the smoke in his lungs for as long as he can hold off the coughing fit and grinds it out on the window ledge, his throat burning.

He has no idea why he did that but immediately feels calmer. Leaning out further, he can see the glint of the river across Horseman’s fields, someone trotting by on a skewbald pony with swinging tail, leaves shimmering in the breeze. A crow catches his eye and he watches it marching back and forth along the fence, coming to a standstill to make officious notes beneath its wing. He still has a headache but at least the thumps have become rhythmic.

He relights the joint and puts it out again after a single puff. At least being stoned might give him the munchies. His mother’s meals keep coming at him, as though from a magic porridge pot.

Eat. Eat. Eat. The pounding of Jenna’s wooden spoon to the skin of a pomegranate, jewels as bright as a baby’s lips falling on to lamb and spiced lentils, arriving before him in a bowl, steaming, heaped on a bed of rice. She was putting cream in his porridge and buttering his toast until it dripped, making Michael’s slavering eyes follow it to his mouth. Eat. Eat. Eat.

There would be talking, endless talking, the plates would keep coming, the pitch of Jenna’s voice growing ever higher, Michael’s like a hammer to his brain, and no sign that they were leaving any time soon.

Oh, but that last small toke was a terrible mistake. He finds himself stumbling around the room, sure there’s a packet of biscuits somewhere, but of course there are no biscuits and all roads lead inexorably to the tangled undergrowth and the lavender jumper that lies beneath his bed. He listens at the bedroom door, regrets it has no lock. Grasping the jumper, he gets back beneath the covers and curls himself around it.

Julia was wearing this jumper the morning he left for Amsterdam. Bending for her knickers, still so sleepy, barely mumbling as he leapt up and grabbed her.

‘I wish you weren’t going,’ she said.

‘I can’t get out of it,’ he said, grabbing her hips and pushing himself against her from behind.

‘Mira’s about to burst through that door.’ She was laughing, only half pushing him away.

He released her and they sat side by side on the bed. ‘I feel bad leaving with her so under the weather but I promised I’d be there. It’s the only day the Dutch can get everyone together.’

Michael was driving him to the airport; the roads would be slippery so they’d have to leave plenty of time. He checked his watch, still early enough: ‘Time for a quickie?’ As was their habit, this took place, hiding from a possible Mira, on the well-worn bit of carpet between the bed and the wall. Afterwards Julia brought coffee and marmalade toast while he threw a few things in a bag.

‘I must get to London as soon as you’re back,’ she said, handing him his cup. ‘At least for a couple of days. Freda’s doing her nut.’

‘It’s only one night. You’ll barely have time to miss me.’

She stopped chewing. ‘Is Rotterdam far from Amsterdam?’

‘It’s just over an hour away.’

‘Will you see Karl?’

‘He’s meeting me for dinner,’ he said and though she had turned away he sensed she was scowling.

His Dutch publisher was generous. The suite he was given at the Dylan Hotel made him yearn for Julia: behind sliding doors a king-size bed in a beamed alcove, the arrangement of cushions suggestive of soft play.

Julian’s meeting had gone well; he liked his Dutch publisher even more in the flesh than he had on the phone. The first
Fletch le Bone
spin-off was to be their lead title. He was introduced to the translator, who dressed rather like Fletch in a Columbo-style mac and had a tic that made it appear he was constantly winking. The film of
Fletch le Bone I
had been a huge hit in Holland. Julian felt his eyes flashing with guilders. Karl, arriving at the Dylan, found him in excellent spirits.

Karl had noticeably lost more hair, his suit was familiarly rumpled. ‘This is going down well,’ he said when Julian passed him a beer from the mini-bar. ‘The traffic out of Rotterdam was awful.’ He explained something of the work he was doing on a new anti-psychotic while they drank. ‘We’re getting close,’ he said. ‘It could become the protocol for Capgras.’

‘What’s that?’

‘You’ve never heard of it? No? Well, simply put, it’s a delusional disorder where the patient is convinced that a close family member has been replaced by an identical-looking imposter.’

Julian shuddered. ‘It reminds me of a recurring dream I had as a boy: me on the doorstep at Firdaws, pointing to a portait of my father, but my mother’s face is furious and she’s trying to push me away, denying that we’ve ever met . . .’

‘It’s an awful syndrome,’ Karl said. ‘Very hard on the spouse. Sometimes the patient forms a whole new relationship with the “imposter”, which is completely separate from before. The worst is when they decide they hate them and try to get rid. There was a gruesome case where a man beheaded his father to prove that he was a robot. He said he wanted to take the batteries out.’

Julian opened a couple more beers, handed one to Karl. ‘Hey,’ Karl said, taking a swig. ‘You should phone down to the concierge for a spliff. When in Amsterdam . . .’

‘I can’t do that!’

‘Of course you can, in fact you must, you’re only here for one night.’

‘No, I meant, you know, just call down to the concierge for it.’

‘Honestly, they won’t bat an eyelid. It’s a good hotel.’

The spliff arrived in its glass canister on a silver tray alongside a single stem of Singapore orchid. It was extra long and beautifully tapered. The room-service waiter placed the tray with its floral garnish on the table, said: ‘Enjoy.’

After the smoke they ambled along by the canal. Karl was in a good mood too, one arm around Julian’s shoulder, insisting they take a wander through De Wallen, though Julian was suddenly so ravenous all he could think about was the restaurant his publisher had recommended. Meatballs and noodles was the thing to order.

The lights bounced on the black water, rippling golden, blue and orange, a fuzzy drizzle felt refreshing on his face. He grinned at Karl. ‘I’m really quite stoned.’ He was chuckling at the slightest thing. ‘Julia doesn’t really go for it so I haven’t in a while.’

‘How
is
Julia?’

‘She spent most of her marriage to that git out of her brains on the stuff, poor girl. It was the only way she could tolerate him.’

‘Is she taking to country life?’

Julian struggled to put up the umbrella he’d taken from the hotel foyer. ‘Good job I brought this,’ he said.

They stopped at a bridge and Karl took it from him and held it over their heads. They looked down into the water. ‘Thousands of bikes a year get dredged from these canals. People are such idiots,’ Karl said. ‘So, Julia?’

‘Ah, yes. Julia. She’s a bit knackered, to tell you the truth. Her business with Freda has taken off which is great except that it’s too far for her to keep travelling in and out of London from Firdaws. Ah. It’s a nightmare . . .’ Julian tailed off, turned up his collar. He took the umbrella from Karl. ‘Come on, I’m taller.’

‘OK, take it, but let’s walk fast to keep warm.’ Karl’s face was lit by a passing boat. His thick brows seemed even more comedic since his hair had thinned.

‘I’ve fucked up,’ Julian said with a sigh. ‘I got carried away by the thought of living at Firdaws again . . .’

‘I’ve heard it’s heaven on earth,’ Karl said, teasing a smile out of him.

‘Yes, well, you should come and stay when you’re next in England, that is, if I manage to hang on to it that long. Oh Christ, I think the dope has made me maudlin.’

They walked on through streets that were gradually filling with people.

‘We’re basically broke and the distance from London makes it impossible for Julia. She has to stay three nights a week at her brother’s and the wife’s a bitch. And it’s not as though her business brings in that much, her petrol practically wipes out her share, but, you know, every little helps . . .’

‘Oh dear. What’s to be done?’ Karl said.

‘I don’t know. I’ve got plenty of script work and a book I actually
want
to write, but I’m alone with Mira all week; it’s difficult to get much done and right now the budget’s too tight for extra childcare.’

‘You’re alone with Mira?’ Karl took a step away from him, said: ‘You mean, Julia just buggers off?’

Julian nodded. ‘I hadn’t realised how important her work is to her.’

‘Wouldn’t it be better for you and the child if Julia got gardening jobs closer to home?’

‘I tried that. There was a good one going in the glasshouses at Harbinger Hall, not too far from Firdaws. My mum knows the owner.’ Julian made a cutting motion at his throat. ‘Didn’t go down too well when I suggested it.’

Nearby a church bell was sounding the hour, tyres hissed on the wet cobbles, the clamour of swearing and bicycle bells was starting to echo around his head. The reflections on the water were whirling and he was glad when Karl broke off at an alleyway. They were in a tunnel, graffiti rising high on the walls, throngs of people pushing by, the lights doing nothing to ease his sense of mild tripping.

They emerged into a wider street where neon signs clashed against the famous red windows. A girl rolled her hips at them through the glass, her tiny bra and pants gleaming like an advert for washing powder, such was their bright whiteness against her skin. Further windows were lit red the length of the street, turning the puddles flamingo pink. ‘Oh God, it’s like a human vending machine,’ Julian said.

A stag party ran past, pushing each other and howling, women hung from doorways to chat, another gyrated behind her window on all fours, her backside rotating like a spinning top from the tiny pinnacle of the waistband of her thong. Julian was determined not to be stirred by anything he saw. ‘It’s true what they say, isn’t it? That most of these women have been trafficked?’

‘I’m afraid so, but everyone comes to see it,’ Karl said.

‘I just want something to eat,’ Julian said and a man with an accent threw back his head and pointed to a teenager in a window – ‘Eat that’ – and made lapping motions towards her with his tongue.

‘We’ll get out of here if you like, but first you should at least step inside the Oude Kerk. It’s Amsterdam’s oldest building. It’s just up there.’ Karl was steering him towards the square. ‘We’ll go now, if you’re absolutely sure you don’t want to watch live couples having sex,’ he said, reading from a flashing sign above their heads. ‘Come,’ Karl tugged at his sleeve. ‘Rembrandt used to pray there.’ And they threaded their way through the Japanese tourists and various hustlers, turning down blowjobs and girl-on-girl action as they went.

Julian was too hungry for anything but a cursory tour of the ancient church that rose from the heart of the red-light district, from Pandaemonium. Here it was: Mulciber’s temple pressed right up against God’s. A bronze hand that was set into the cobbles groped a single bronze breast. ‘An unknown sculptor,’ Karl told him, and then inside, something of the church’s history. Before the Reformation it had been the hub for beggars and pedlars and gossip. Karl translated a text above a screen of ornate brass: ‘The false practices gradually introduced into God’s church were here undone in the year of seventy eight.’ The false practices, Karl said, were mainly homelessness. ‘The Calvinists weren’t having any of that, oh, no.’ There was something else about Catholics still coming each year to celebrate the ‘Miracle of Amsterdam’ when someone was supposed to have vomited up the Host, though Julian wasn’t sure he didn’t make that bit up.

Karl shepherded him to a water taxi and they looked back at the church looming large at the flaming centre of sin. Red and sulphur lights blazed across the black water and reflected the writhing throngs as demons chained to the burning lake.

They found the restaurant. The speciality of the house was overrated, the noodles claggy, the meatballs oozing grease, but Julian, ravenous from the grass, tucked in with a vigour that Karl found amusing. He talked while Julian ate. He was excited about his work on the Capgras drug. ‘Imagine the difference it could make,’ he said. ‘Hundreds of thousands of people lifted out of confusion, more than I could ever help if I’d become a doctor.’