Ed Snijders

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w w w . n o v u m - p u b l i s h i n g . c o . u kw w w . n o v u m - p u b l i s h i n g . c o . u k

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© 2017 novum publishing

ISBN 978-3-99064-123-1Translation from Dutch to English: Frans van RossumEditing: Louise DarvidCover photos: Linda Bair, Mykola Mazuryk, Rolffi mages | DreamstimeCover design, layout & typesetting: novum publishing

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Part 1

Death Desire

Friday I died, today I am Light.I cried, I begged, I prayed, I drowned,

Gained strength in deepest pain,I live – Death I endured.

9

The End.This is The End.To whom it may concern: this is The End.

The word repeats like a mantra, ricocheting and echoing in his head as he drops the letter where once the cash register stood. From the counter, dust f lakes whirl up in his face. Through the dark, Ted finds his way to the exit by touch. He hasn’t been in his coffee shop since the utilities were cut off. He needs both hands to protect his face from the sticky threads of cobwebs. Through the hole down in the door he crawls on to the street. There is nobody, left or right. Nobody has seen him. With a melancholy glance at the boarded windows of his once thriving shop he puts the piece of chipboard back against the hole that he used for his unlawful visit. With a bitter grin he turns his back to it and walks up Oudezijds Voorburgwal. Walking the slope up the bridge makes him pant. His legs are heavy. To catch his breath, he holds on to the railing. His f ingers stroke the let-ters on the railing that spell Liedelsluis. He gazes over the wa-ter, the dark houses along Zeedijk. Towering over the rooftops the church of Saint Nicholas, patron saint of sailors and whores and, inevitably, of Amsterdam. To the right is his wrecked cof-fee shop. This is the area where he fell in love with the town, its rich history, its age-old gables, its thousands of bridges over the maze of canals, its tolerance, its diversity in people and cultures that are home here. But there is also the other side of life that he got to know here; street crime, extortion, bureaucracy, officials, the city administration with its swing policies, everything that added to his bankruptcy.

10

***

Barely half a mile away someone wakes up startled by a shrill whis-tle. The man jumps up, grabs his bag from the bench and rushes through the compartment to the train balcony. The doors hiss but he just makes it on to the platform right before they close. Still dizzy from the abrupt end of his catnap he gets on to the escala-tor to the tunnel under the tracks. In the hall of Central Station he tries to ignore the street dealer asking him through his closed and barely moving lips if he needs drugs. If you only knew who you’re talking to, he thinks with his usual smile. The boy doesn’t give up and takes him by the wrist like a friend would, touting the exceptional quality of his stuff. A look in the kid’s eyes says enough. He drops his bag and in one smooth movement takes the dealer’s wrist and bends it behind his back.

‘Got the wrong guy, my friend,’ he hisses in his ear and bends the palm of the hand forcefully to the forearm.

The precious watch drops on the tiles of the hall. The pick-pocket turns white.

‘Problems, gentlemen?’ Out of the blue two officers of the rail-way police are at the scene, the last thing the man wants. With his most charming smile and an arm tightly around the thief ’s shoul-der he cheerfully says, ‘No problems, sergeant. We’re old chums.’

The cops are suspicious. The younger one points to the f loor. ‘Is that your watch?’

The man looks down, sheepish, and picks it up. ‘O my God, yes!’ He wipes dirt of the bulletproof glass.

‘Thank you, officer. The old strap. I should get the whole thing repaired. I think it hasn’t been running for two months or so.’

He slips it in his coat pocket, gives the cops a friendly nod and with a poker face he pulls the robber along, whispering, ‘Keep your ugly mouth shut. When we’re around the corner you get the fuck out of my face and go hiking or die, brother.’

Outside the station, the guy walks away, reaching in his pocket. The man goes where the bikes are parked. The pickpocket holds a phone by his ear and whispers, ‘Our man is coming your way.’

11

Actually, their man is breathing the fresh night air. The sky rum-bles. As he stops to get the bike key from his pocket he sees the storm clouds above the Victoria hotel. To the left against the dark skies rises the menacing silhouette of the church of Saint Nicholas with its central dome and on each side a tower piercing the heav-ens. What a majestic gateway to de Wallen.

***

With a shoulder shrug Ted says goodbye to it all and crosses the bridge. The stench from the dark green urinal is biting his nose. The clock of the Old Church says almost a quarter past three. He passes his fiercest competitor, mutters a curse at the first cof-fee shop in town and turns into Dollebegijnensteeg. The usu-ally bustling red light district is calling it a day. Most red lights are off, the lonely window curtains open. Down the alley a late visitor in a black leather jacket with a fur collar leaves a brothel room. He checks the alley skittishly and comes walking toward him. With his head down Ted mumbles an unintelligible good night. The man snaps something back, it sounds Russian, but why not Rumanian, Hungarian or Bulgarian? After all, this is the Amsterdam red light district. In any case, Ted couldn’t care less. He takes a left, a right, he knows this area as the pockets of his pants, and moments later he walks down Warmoesstraat. Right on Papenbrugsteeg and Beursplein to Damrak. Seeing the luxury in the display windows there makes him feel wronged. The Stock Exchange behind him, too. In the good old days when the sky was the limit he checked the status of options and shares every day. He shakes his head. Sad. Ted casts a glance at the two-towered Central Station in the distance. It was built on a man-made island in the port as the gateway to Amsterdam. It is said that every day some one hundred and f ifty thousand people arrive and leave the city here. How many saw his belov-ed city for the f irst time when they came out there?

12

***

The man is in a hurry. Any moment the storm will burst. On his way to his bicycle he passes two white VW vans. He avoids the gaze of the cops against their cars leisurely moni-toring the entrance of the station. He spots his bike between the narrowly packed two-wheelers, puts his bag in the box be-fore the steering bar and has to squeeze forward to reach the front wheel. Before bending over to unlock the wheel chain he looks around him. Nobody but the two guys. He tugs his vehicle off the rack. There is a black SUV down the dark al-ley along the outdoor bicycle mammoth. Right when he jumps on his bike the car moves. Two Xenon light beams blind him. He crosses the bridge.

The jetty with the lonely canal boats is deserted. The sudden low roar of a hot 8-cylinder tears the silence. The black Cadillac Escalade with tinted windows drives up the bridge. It passes him and slows down. At the passenger side the window whizzes open and the barrel of an automatic rif le sticks out. ‘Mercy, no!’ the man mumbles. ‘Not dead.’ In a ref lex he rips the steering bar to the right. The salvo echoes through the night as he slaloms the Prins Hendrikkade bike. Like a madman he turns the ped-als. Peeking back he sees the Escalade reversing on the intersec-tion and turning right onto the kade. His attackers pursue him with roaring engines. Nauseating two-tone police sirens begin screaming. They aren’t far away, but he knows that nothing can stop these guys from killing him under the law’s eyes. There are sixty feet left to the bike tunnel, which will give him tempo-rary shelter. He rides down the slope. Another load of bullets f ly over his head. He bends instinctively, dashes down with his nose on the steering bar. Above his head the car stops. Doors swing open. Just before taking the sharp left turn he notices a guy with a balaclava bending over the railing.

13

***

The sound of sirens and the f lashing of blue police lights at Central Station end Ted’s musing. He turns and drags himself in an ever slower pace to Dam square. In the dead of night the square is deserted. Empty. Totally empty. Rumbling storm clouds gath-er above the Royal Palace. A nasty cold gust makes him shiv-er. He delves deeper into his collar. With a hollow gaze he sees the seven low dark arches that mark the hidden entrance to this mighty seventeenth-century symbol of the city when it was a world power. With each step the arches gawk at him ever larger and gloomier like hollow sockets. He counts the windows and the f loors, one full f loor, one half, another full and another half f loor. Higher up, his gaze reaches the pediment with the cha-otic struggle of sea monsters. Gold horns and a trident point at him. The monsters squirm and snap voraciously knowing that soon he will be their food. He shivers. His eyes reach still high-er. The bronze statues on the edge are coming to life. Prudence frowns. She opens her mouth to say something and with a ges-ture admonishes him to be cautious. Blinded Justice weighs his life on her scale. Where weight wins and lightness loses, the scale shows the truth and she pronounces the verdict. At the top of the triangle stands Peace, daughter of Justice and Jupiter, symbol of freedom. She waves her olive branch and Mercury’s staff. The Horn of Abundance at her feet is pouring peace and prosperity.

Not for me, Ted thinks scornfully. He estimates the distance between statue and square. He nods.

‘All you need.’

***

Before the assassin can aim, the man has found cover in the tun-nel. A small advantage. The SUV must be on the street above the tunnel that gets him onto Singel. Which escape route is best? As fast as possible he bikes against the traff ic on the one-way east side of the canal. With squealing tires the SUV turns on to