The Devil's Playground (43 page)

a gang, but it wasn’t kids, Jon. The people who did this to

me were wearing suits. That’s the one thing I remember,

black suits. That and the smell of the pavement.’

Jon looked away. Thought about what the detective had

said: black suits. The shadow in black that had pursued him

earlier. Was it possible they were one and the same?

Van Hijn rubbed his side. He tried smiling but he was in

a lot of pain. He wondered whether he should tell Jon about The Garden of Earthly Delights, his own uncomfortable reading of the book, the sense of something not quite right underlying

the text, the shifting of pronouns, the looseness of the tenses

… Or tell him what he’d learned at AYN about the presence

of SPAR in the city. But he could see that Jon had enough

on his mind — his fingers were continually looking for something

to do, his foot never still. No, better not to say anything,

about AYN or about the fact that when he’d tried to trace

them through property deeds and other records, he hadn’t

found a single mention of the organization. ‘Your beard,’ he

said pointing to Jon, changing the subject. ‘Makes you look

more Jewish, you know.’

‘I’m only learning what it is to be a Jew now. I never had

much practice before.’

ŚYou know what Isaiah Berlin once said?’

Jon shook his head.

‘A Jew is a Jew like a table is a table.’

They both laughed. Jon leaned forward. ‘You know, detective,

I don’t quite feel myself a proper Jew.’

‘Why not?’

‘It’s because I wasn’t in the Holocaust, my family weren’t

touched by it. I almost feel an impostor in my own race.’

‘You think the Holocaust makes you a Jew?’

‘No, but I feel, shit - I feel left out, if you really want to

know. I sometimes wish that I had gone through it. I feel

left out of something huge and defining.’

‘You’re fucking crazy. What do you think the Holocaust

would have taught you if you’d been lucky enough to survive

it? You think you would have learned anything if you’d gone

straight to the gas chamber on your arrival?’

‘Maybe it would have made me more of a Jew,’ Jon said,

knowing he was goading the detective now.

‘What kind of Jew do you want to be, Jon? The kind that’s

had to witness all that atrocity, the one who’s watched

children and old women being humiliated in the streets and

then killed? What kind of man is that? What kind of Jew?

The one who has to steal from his own people to survive?

Whose job it is to undress babies before the gas chamber?

The one who has to eat human flesh and let SS officers fuck

and torture him for fun? Jesus, Jon, is that the kind of man

you want to be? Do you want to live the rest of your life

embracing your hatred and need for revenge?’

‘No, I didn’t mean it like that,‘Jon said, though he had. ‘I

was wrong,’ he added.

Van Hijn took a sip of his coffee. Looked towards the

slow moving boats inching down the canal. He knew he’d

overreacted, understood how his own past coloured his

words. What he wouldn’t have given for his father to have

been elsewhere. ‘Don’t be so consumed by your hatred that

your life becomes empty without it, Jon. Find meaning in

other things.’

Jon thought about Suze. The smell of her hands, the

warmth of her breath on the back of his neck. But, fuck, it

was the hardest thing to do - to let go. And didn’t that imply

they’d won?

As if reading his mind, Van Hijn said, ‘You planning on

staying for a while?’

Jon nodded. ‘For a while. If you’ll let me, that is.’ They both

laughed. ‘There’s something here. It feels so very different

from London. I can enjoy small things, things I always took

for granted - like you say, the smell of pastry, the sound of the

cobbled streets. I love the way people mind their own business

in this city, the sense of individual freedom.’

‘Huh! That’s just a mask. You think there’s freedom here?’

Van Hijn smiled, amused for the first time that day. ‘It’s just

the same as anywhere else, only the laws are different. But

the laws are still in place, still there. We can’t let people run

around doing exactly what they want.’

‘Why not?’

‘Why not? Because not all people want to mind their own

business. Absolute freedom means letting people kill, torture,

rape and get away with it. The Nazis had absolute freedom.

So do most dictators. You come here and you think it’s

freedom but it’s only the slightest shift in the rules, the

foundations are still there. Unfortunately others make the

same mistake as you when they arrive. But unlike you, they

act on their desires and turn this city into the one that

they originally mistook it for. And so you see how easily the

imagined leaks into reality and becomes it.’

They had one last drink, the detective unable to resist

another slice of the chilli and chive custard cheesecake that

the cafe was famous for.

‘It’s fucking horrible!’ Jon said, spitting his mouthful of

the rancid substance into a serviette. ‘How can you eat

that?’ Suddenly he felt the burn of the chilli shooting up his

larynx, going nuclear in his mouth and behind that the sickly

sweet, eggy aftertaste of the custard that had cemented on

to his teeth.

‘They also do them in whiskey and liquorice, apple and

anchovy and marzipan and bacon flavour. The sweet and

the savoury. I guess it’s just not for you.’

Jon gulped down a full glass of water, ice and all. ‘Ugh!’

Van Hijn laughed, clearly amused by the spectacle. ‘So

what are your plans?’ he asked.

‘I’m going to find out who’s behind these films and from

there, how the films led to Jake’s murder. I think you were

right. The films are fake, snuff. Somehow Jake colluded and

they killed him for it.’

Van Hijn didn’t say anything, not that he now knew the

films were real or that he was certain Jake had been killed

for them. It was funny how they’d changed sides, he and

Jon, each believing the opposite of what they’d first thought.

He could have told him what he’d seen in the preview but

he knew he wouldn’t. He didn’t want Jon getting himself

killed, better to let him follow a bad trail, better disappointment than death.

‘I know someone who can show us the preview.’

‘Preview? What are you talking …’

Her phone call had woken him from an uneasy slumber

that was filled with the Doctor’s face, his cackle and sneer,

the whipflash of the city.

‘Are you okay, Jon?’ Suze asked.

ŚWaking up. Slowly.’ He lit a cigarette, sat up on the bed.

The first inhalation kicked his heart into gear. ‘You mean the

49 reels?’

ŚYes. If you don’t mind seeing me again, that is.’ She left

it hanging. Jon took three more drags off his cigarette. He

had to make a decision now.

‘How?’

‘A friend of mine owns a few porn shops. I was talking to

him the other day, happened to mention the films and he

said he knew where I could get to see the preview.’

‘When?’

‘Tonight. At seven.’ She paused. He could hear her

breathing. ‘If you want.’

‘Yes,’ he said and put the phone down.

Friday night in Amsterdam and Jon couldn’t believe the

number of people swarming the streets as he wrestled his

way through, heading for Suze’s flat. Like the Vegas of

Europe. Multitudes descended on the city every weekend in

search of sex, drugs and a freedom that was not available

back home. Groups of Eastern Europeans looking for sex,

ravers pilled-up and bug-eyed, smugglers and students,

businessmen and tramps, all congregated in the city every

Friday night, shrinking the streets and alleys and shrouding

the canals.

Jon felt uncomfortable as he passed through the smiling,

expectant hordes. He kept walking, kept looking back. He

was sure it was the same man that he’d eluded the day before.

How the hell had he found him again? And who was he?

The killer? Jon didn’t want to think that. Had been trying to

deny it all night, this morning too. A flight back to London

suddenly seemed the sensible option. If he’s the killer, why

doesn’t he just confront me, Jon thought. Better that than

this endless unknowing fear.

‘Hi.’ She was wearing a beige suede halterneck, a long, flowing

skirt and had managed to apply lipstick only to her top lip

when she answered the door.

‘You look nice,’ Jon said, relieved to be out of the public

gaze.

She stared at him and for a moment they were like

strangers trapped together in a lift, looking for anything in

common that could break the silence. ‘Thanks, come in. I’ll

just be a minute.’

He sat down on the sofa as she went off to finish her

make-up and began flicking idly through a film magazine

that lay on the coffee-table. He couldn’t concentrate. He

looked at the mess on the table - spilled weed, empty wine

glasses, a printout of Charlotte’s diary, some photocopies

of her work, CD covers — and thought how the table so

mirrored her. He looked up and saw her in the other room,

just movement. The Band was playing on the deck, horns

wailing, voices overlapping, sepia drenched and filled with

dread.

‘Have a joint. There’s some in my handbag,’ she shouted

through the open door.

He went through her bag. Took out the small sachet of

grass, paper, a lighter. He also took out the canister that lay

there. Mace. He felt safer just holding the small black tube,

like a travel deodorant, its red button screaming Press Me.

He looked back, she was still in the bedroom. He took the

can over to the window, stretched his hand outside, pressed

down. An explosion of fine mist spat out of the tube. Jon

quickly closed the window before the noxious fumes could

leak in. He smiled.

‘It’s great that women can buy these things legally here,’

he said. ‘In London they don’t have any sort of protection.’

She came back into the room. ‘Also means that the rapists

have it,’ she added. ‘You want it?’

Jon nodded.

‘Just don’t go getting yourself killed.’

He smiled and placed the small canister in his jacket.

‘It’s a nightmare out there,’ Jon said as he smoked the

joint. Their speech was now filled with banalities. Afraid to

say anything else.

‘Tell me about it. Friday night and you can’t even squeeze

into your favourite coffee shop because of all the tourists.’

She stood in front of him cleaning her glasses. She’d never

looked more desirable and he felt a strong urge to take her

then, lay her on the coffee-table and make love to her. Forget

the past. Forget everything.

Instead he rolled another joint and thought about Jake.

What had once seemed a simple murder, if there could be

such a thing, had now taken on more angles and permutations

than he would have thought possible. That such an event

could have been the effect of all these lines drawing together.

He knew the Doctor was the key. Dominic, somehow, the

link. The films, perhaps, the reason. But were they real?

Tonight he would know. If they weren’t, and were merely a

fake, a historical genre snuff movie, then had Jake been roped

in, on some pretence, and dispatched as soon as his role was

over? That seemed the most likely answer. The detective had

said as much. There were too many similarities between the

death of Jake and that of the other victims. Coincidence

seemed ludicrous.

But there was another option and though he’d been suppressing

it, he couldn’t deny its viability. Van Hijn himself

had hinted at it. Perhaps Jake had made snuff films with the

Doctor. It didn’t seem like the Jake he knew but then neither

did the corpse on the slab that day. Had Dominic found out

about it? After Beatrice’s death? And killed Jake when he

came back from London?

And what about the Doctor? Where was he hiding? In

some cellar or bolt-hole or an apartment furnished and paid

for by the government? Jon’s head began to spin. He lit the

joint and took a deep swallow.

But if the films were real then everything was turned

upside down. Did Jake find them in the museum, show them

to someone, Dominic, the Doctor, someone else? Was he

killed for them? After all they were worth a lot of money.

But then how did Beatrice fit in? How did the other seven

girls? Jon knew he couldn’t discount them. The link between

them and Jake was the only solid thing he had. That and the

films he would get to see tonight.

He’d printed out photos of both Jake and the Doctor

back in London. Freeze-framed the video and captured their

fuzzy likeness. He had to find the Doctor. And Dominic

knew where he was. He was certain of it. If only she would

get in touch with Dominic. What else was she hiding? But

no, he couldn’t think like that. Seeing her made everything

different and he wondered for whom, exactly, he’d come

back.

‘How’s the thesis going?’ he asked, trying to derail his