Through Dead Eyes
Authors: Chris Priestley
For Hannah
(who isn’t anything like Hanna)
Contents
The plane dipped out of dazzling sunshine into a grey mass of cloud. Beads of rainwater scurried diagonally down the glass, trembling as they did so. The wing tip was obscured and revealed and obscured once again in rapid succession as the plane descended through the formless murk of cloud, until a darkened landscape was laid out beneath them.
Alex rubbed his eyes, peering at the motorway that snaked below the wing’s edge, bejewelled with twinkling headlights. It was ten o’clock in the morning, but it seemed the night had never fully let go of its grip on the day.
The tyres smacked the runway. The plane shook and juddered, roaring as it slowed down, and then began to taxi to the terminal. The pilot welcomed them – in Dutch and English – to Schiphol airport and to Amsterdam. In his head Alex had pronounced it
Sk
ipol – like school – and was surprised that it was actually
Sh
ipol. Alex’s father turned to him and smiled.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘Amsterdam awaits.’
Alex nodded and stretched his legs, yawning, and slipped a bookmark into his book before closing it. The plane came to a halt. The passengers immediately and noisily began to get their things from the overhead lockers and switch on their mobile phones.
The man sitting next to Alex’s father unbuckled his seat belt and stood up to get his bag. There was a huge sweat stain in the shape of Africa under his armpit.
‘I’d better check to see if there are any messages from Saskia . . .’ said Alex’s father.
Saskia worked for his father’s publishers. He was an expert on the Second World War and his recent book about occupied Amsterdam had become a bestseller in Holland as well as in England.
‘She’s meeting us at the gate.’ His father put his phone in his jacket pocket.
Alex followed his father out into the aisle, grabbed his bag and shuffled towards the exit at the front of the plane.
‘Goodbye,’ said the stewardess at the door with a mechanical smile. ‘Enjoy your stay.’
It was March and spring was slow in coming. A dank breeze blew in through the open door as they stepped out into the rain. The metal staircase looked slippery and Alex gripped tightly to the cold, wet handrail. The air was filled with the angry roar of aircraft engines.
Men in fluorescent yellow jackets and ear defenders stood waiting on the wet tarmac as the passengers hurried to the shelter of the arrivals building.
Alex and his father joined the long and shapeless queue at passport control.
Alex’s father grabbed his arm. ‘Try to cheer up a bit, Alex, for goodness’ sake.’
Alex sighed loudly.
‘Stop wallowing,’ said his father. ‘You’re never going to make anything better by moping about.’
Alex shrugged. His father scowled and turned back to the queue.
Alex took out his iPod, put the earbuds in and scrolled down to shuffle. The opening notes of ‘Seven Nation Army’ started up. The White Stripes always reminded Alex of his mother. She hated them. She used to yell at him to turn it down when he was playing them in his bedroom. It was nearly a year since she had moved out, but Alex still couldn’t listen to them without thinking of her. He flicked to the next song and tried to put her out of his mind.
The sullen official at passport control looked at the photo of Alex and then at him, then back to the photo. He handed the passports back with a nod, and Alex and his father continued on their way, walking through a doorway into the arrivals hall.
A small crowd of people, some holding boards with names on, were waiting for passengers on the other side of a low barrier. A woman in her forties with shoulder-length blonde hair was waving at them. Alex recognised her from the photo his father had stuck to the fridge door at home.
‘Jeremy!’ she called.
The name sounded so different in her accent that it took Alex a couple of seconds to realise it was his father’s name.
‘Saskia!’ replied Alex’s father.
The woman moved through the crowd to meet them at the end of the barrier. Alex’s father put his bag down and they embraced.
‘It’s so lovely to see you again, Jeremy,’ said Saskia. ‘How was your flight?’
‘It was fine. No hold-ups.’
‘This is my daughter, Angelien,’ said Saskia.
Alex hadn’t noticed her until that point, but a tall, thin girl stepped forward. She wore tight skinny jeans and a silver puffa jacket with a white-fur-trimmed hood. Her hands were thrust deep into the pockets of the jacket, which was open, revealing a T-shirt with a picture of the full moon, blue against a square of black night.
She was about twenty, Alex guessed. She was blonde, like her mother, though her hair was longer. Her face was pale and round, and serious despite her smile.
‘Nice to meet you, Angelien,’ said Alex’s father. His father kissed her on both cheeks. ‘You’re studying history, I hear.’
Angelien nodded. ‘I’m working on my doctorate.’
‘It must be in the blood,’ said Saskia. She turned towards Alex. ‘And this must be your son,’ said Saskia. ‘You look just like your father when he was a student. When we were at Oxford, you know? He was very good looking. Very sexy.’
Alex blushed and looked away. Angelien rolled her eyes behind Saskia’s back.
‘Mother!’
Alex laughed.
Saskia raised an eyebrow and turned to look at her daughter.
‘Do you see?’ said Saskia with a smile. ‘They are ganging up on us already. Come – let’s get you to your hotel. The car’s over here.’
Angelien linked arms with her mother and they headed towards the car park, Alex and his father following behind.
They put their bags in the boot of the black Volvo and Alex’s father got in the front seat beside Saskia. Angelien sat in the back with Alex, her face hidden by the fur trim of her hood.
‘So,’ said Saskia as she started up the car. ‘This is your first time in Amsterdam, Alex?’
‘Yes,’ he replied.
‘We’ll have to make sure you enjoy it.’ Saskia smiled at him in the rear-view mirror.
They left the car park and the indicator ticked as they headed swiftly out into the traffic.
‘You are not here for so very long,’ said Saskia, ‘and there are so many things to see in Amsterdam. You will just have to come back another time, won’t you?’
Saskia smiled at him again in the rear-view mirror. Angelien fired off a volley of Dutch.
‘English please, darling,’ said Saskia. ‘It’s rude to our guests.’
‘I said watch the road and stop driving so goddam fast.’
Alex’s father gave an embarrassed chuckle. Angelien looked at Alex and shook her head. Saskia and Alex’s father started up a conversation. Alex tuned it out and stared out of the window.
A double-decker train rattled past them on the rail tracks that ran alongside the motorway. A canal wended its way nearby, reeds growing along the banks.
The motorway they drove along seemed just like the motorways in England – except they were driving on the wrong side of the road. The buildings they drove past looked mundanely familiar: a succession of tombstone-grey apartment blocks. They could almost have been driving through the outskirts of London. He had expected things to be more different.
It wasn’t until they entered the centre of Amsterdam that the city started to look more like the photos his father had shown him before they left: rows of tall, thin houses whose walls rose up to gable tops that were stepped or decorated with swirls and scrolls. Instead of being straight, like a terraced street in London, the roofline was higgledy-piggledy, each house seeming to compete with the one next door.
‘It’s a beautiful city,’ said Saskia. ‘Although I am a little biased, of course. But I think you will love it.’
Alex glanced at Saskia’s face in the rear-view mirror and looked out of the window again.
His father had said the trip would be a chance for them to spend some time together, although he was going to have to work some of the time.
The publishers were paying for Alex’s father to come to Holland to talk to television people who were interested in screening a documentary to tie in with a new edition of his book. Alex’s father had taken a great deal of time to explain just how important it all was.
Saskia was in charge of liaising with the television companies. His father called her an ‘old friend from university’, but Alex could tell they had been more than just friends back then.
Angelien had said nothing after her outburst. She seemed lost in her own thoughts and intent on ignoring Alex, who looked out at the view. Saskia was right – it was beautiful.
The city seemed to be squeezing in around them now, the roads narrower, the buildings taller and darker. Every now and again Alex would catch a glimpse of a long stretch of gloomy water as they drove over a bridge.
They slowed down and turned off the main road into a narrow road that ran alongside a canal. The car tyres rumbled along the cobbles and tramlines.
‘Here we are,’ said Saskia, putting the handbrake on noisily. ‘It’s a lovely hotel. You’ll be very comfortable.’
Alex’s father leaned over and kissed Saskia on the cheek. ‘Thanks for sorting everything out this end,’ he said and then opened the car door. Alex followed him out and they stood together on the pavement.
A cyclist sped past, large headphones on, singing along enthusiastically, his voice trembling comically as the wheels juddered over the cobbles.
‘We’ll book a restaurant for this evening,’ said Saskia. ‘Do you like Indonesian food?’
Alex’s father looked at him and Alex shrugged. He had never had Indonesian food. How was he supposed to know if he liked it or not?
His father frowned.
Alex hunched his shoulders and shivered. He felt cold all of a sudden. He gazed at the canal. It was so black it could have been filled with oil.
‘Indonesian would be great,’ he heard his father say.
Alex felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. He had the strongest feeling that someone was watching him. He turned and looked up at the hotel, his eyes drawn to a specific window, but the lights were out and he could see nothing there.
Alex turned back to Saskia’s car. The darkened windows reflected the hotel above. Just for an instant, in the window he had been drawn to, he was sure he saw a face – a strange, pale face – looking back at him. But when he turned to look at the actual hotel, the window was as blank as before.
‘See you at two,’ his father said.
