The Devil's Playground (17 page)

‘And then more came. And I was happy. I know that’s a

terrible thing to say but it’s what I felt. Not happy that they

were dead but now that they were dead I was happy it

was in this way. I thought having it splashed across the

newspapers would create something positive. In February

when the police had the suspect I hoped they’d got the

wrong man and when the next girl was found I felt a surge

of excitement. But now I’m asking myself how did I even

think like that? How could I? Did I really want more people

dead just so a point could be made?’

Dominic leaned back in the chair. Which is why we need

to crank it up a notch,’ he said.

Suze looked at him blankly. We need to stop. Didn’t

you hear what I’ve been saying? Stop and reassess our

motives.’

We can’t stop. They won’t stop. Killings will continue.

Our fascination with them will only expand. It’s up to us to

show people the true face of murder.’

She realized what he meant. ‘You’re going to use Beatrice.’

She caught his eyes. Watched them shift, then light up. He

smiled.

‘A friend passed me the police photos. Not the smiling

graduation shot on the front pages. The after shots.’

‘Get rid of them.’ She grabbed his hand and squeezed

tight.

‘No.’ But he didn’t pull away.

‘Please, Dominic. It’s gone too far. I know your intentions

are good but I’m not sure this is the solution any more.’

‘People need to see what the word “murder” stands for.

They need to see the blood, skin and bone that make up this

word. The pain and loss and never-againness. I thought you

understood.’ He shook his head, unclenched, stood up, called

his dog Bill to his side. ‘This is the only weapon we have.

We don’t have guns, we have images. You’ll see. I’ve got

something special waiting. Something that will make all this

talk academic. We need to take it to another level. We need

to take it as far as it can go.’ He turned from her before she

could answer him. He didn’t want to hear. She would see

when it was all over. She would understand the necessity of

it. Then she would move across a table and place her hand

in his, smile and say, ‘I should have known all along.’ He

wanted to share conversations with her that no one else

understood, to hold her when memory ripped through her

soul like broken glass, to stop her shaking and make her

smile. But he could never say these things to her. His own

fear was like a gag slowly working its way down his throat.

But this would all change very soon. And then they would be joined and the world would melt away from them, fall off the edges, vanish altogether.

She sat and watched him disappear into the flux of itinerary

chasing tourists, lost now, just another floating ghost.

She lit a cigarette and leafed through the Breugel book,

quickly getting drawn into the vertiginous plains and

impossible towers of his work, wanting her thoughts to be

completely engulfed, submerged, silenced and squeezed out.

It was only when the coffee was done, the cigarette too, that she noticed the price tag on the inside front cover, the ”. nill price, the name of a new bookshop, and she wondered had he really found it secondhand or bought it new and

forgotten to take off the label? She looked up, not wanting

her head crammed with such thoughts, with so little kindness

and she pledged to try harder. Feeling better already, filled

with the instant absolution that making a promise bestows,

she got up, tucked the book under her arm and was quickly

swallowed up by the tremulous masses.

He sat amid his machines, shiny, humming computers and

insect-like chipboards, the transferring equipment, the black

editing boxes and the old film projector that his dad had

given him on his sixteenth birthday — the only time it seemed

to Dominic that the old man had actually thought about

what he was buying his son, rather than the token, sometimes

wildly inappropriate, present that was the norm.

He thought about his meeting with Suze, all the things left

unspoken, the silence in their lives which neither of them

could break. Would she leave the Council? When he’d seen

the paper that morning, he knew that things would change,

that they could not continue as they had done. But while for

Suze it seemed a severance, for him it was an indication that

they were right. That things had to be brought out into the

open. The world was always darker when it lay hidden behind

words.

He thought about the body in the canal. The feel of dead

hair. The slurp of the water swallowing it up.

He looked through his CD s and picked out Willie Nelson’s Red Headed Stranger. The opening bars of ‘Time of the Preacher’ crept into the room and then the lone, high voice

filled the space around him. Sometimes every song on an

album told you about yourself. Dominic listened quietly,

thinking about Suze.

Later, the dog came and curled at his feet.

‘Come on now, I went and bought this especially for you

so I want to see you eating it,’ Dominic said as he picked up

the two cream cakes off the table. ‘That’s more like it.’ He

smiled, watching the dog lap up the cake and, in one gulp,

swallow it. He stroked Bill a few times and muttered some

words. There was an awful smell in his flat these days. He

knew he’d been letting himself go. But it was almost over

now. And someone was coming. The old man had said so.

He had an idea where this person would go. It was visible

from his window. He rigged a small cam to the outside of

his window ledge, facing the enclosure. Routed it so that it

appeared as a self-contained square in the top right of his

computer screen, overlaying the Work. He sighed, lit a cigarette.

It was almost finished and yet why did he feel so

apathetic towards it? He should have been thrilled, scared

yes, but overjoyed too … instead he felt numb and he tried

not to think about Suze or about what they’d said. How it

was him who should have felt guilty for the girl’s death and

not her. He smoked weed and listened to Hiisker Did until

his brain stopped humming, and when he fell asleep that

night it was Beatrice who kept him company until dawn.

Van Hijn walked through the rain which had picked up and

was slung almost horizontally by a brewing north-easterly

wind that had wrapped itself around the city.

He didn’t want to do this.

Each step seemed to take for ever. He had a sudden urge

for cheesecake and he stopped at a small patisserie and had

one slice of chocolate and one slice of banana. He felt better

immediately though he knew he’d suffer for it. He’d eaten

too fast again and that telling first shot of pain would soon

come, then the full heartburn and indigestion doublewhammo.

He stood outside the piercing parlour and waited for his

stomach to settle. He smoked two cigarettes. Checked his

watch. The Englishman should be on his way home by now.

That was good. If Jon Reed fucked up in some way, they

would blame it on him. Take him off the case for good.

Immediate suspension. He had a feeling that Jon was searching

for something beyond his friend’s death and it worried

him. Another thing to get stressed about. He looked out at

the canal. It calmed him, he loved the open view here, so

different from the District. There was something in openness,

in unrestricted vistas and vast spaces that made you feel as

if your very self was expanded. He turned back, feeling

better. The rain continued regardless. Umbrellas josded the

sky like spears in an Uccello painting. He took a deep breath

and stepped inside.

‘Good afternoon.’ The blonde receptionist smiled.

Van Hijn smiled back. Maybe this wouldn’t be as bad as

he thought.

‘Afternoon.’ He flashed his badge. ‘I’d like to talk to the

piercer, please.’

‘Concerning?’ Her smile hadn’t changed. She wore nurse’s

whites, was older than she’d first appeared. Her hair spilled

like honey on white shoulders and Van Hijn noted how she

held herself more like a work of art than a human being,

delicately poised in the space she occupied with a certain

measure that seemed to betray deep character. For a moment

Van Hijn was speechless. He looked down at the table. Small

printed leaflets and photocopied disclaimers. A half-eaten

sandwich.

‘Just routine questions. Could you get him, please?’

She nodded, a smile still lurking somewhere in her face.

Van Hijn watched as she went into the room behind her. He

felt for the photos in his pocket. Twenty Polaroids.

Images of scarring. Images of burns. Images of holes.

Jake’s body. In little pieces.

Whatever his friend Jon might have thought, it was obvious

to Van Hijn that most of the damage done to Jake’s

body was self-inflicted. He’d been a detective in Amsterdam

long enough to recognize the markings. The city was a

bright, shining light for these moths of the night, slamming

themselves against the fire, trying to find that one perfect

moment of stillness. He could feel their urgent desire to

break free of things the world held dear. He knew it in

himself, the need for separateness, the constant cigarettes,

weed, needles and hooks of their own. We all gradually kill

ourselves, he thought, we all, moment by moment, do things that make us less and we accept this, even cherish it. And yet we continue.

The woman came back through the door.

‘The piercer?’ he said, feeling slightly annoyed.

‘Yes.’ She sat down in front of him, a lithe, heart

quickening movement that quashed all his anxiety and annoyance

with the flick of her heel. ‘My receptionist told me that

you wanted to ask me a few questions.’ She smiled, watching

the surprise on his face. ‘I’m sorry, it’s not your fault, there’s not too many women working in this business. Don’t worry,

it’s just a way to pass the time, I don’t even take it personally

any more.’

‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t…’

‘Forget it. Take a seat. I’m Annabelle, what did you want

to know?’

He sat down. He wanted to sink into the chair. Let it

gobble him up. How stupid. How fucking thoughtless. He

couldn’t believe it. He would have to try harder.

‘A case I’m working on. The victim had numerous scars

and markings that I think were self-inflicted or, at least,

willingly inflicted.’

‘Piercings?’

Van Hijn nodded. He reached for the photographs. The

phone rang. She picked it up, began speaking.

He stared at the small parlour to his left. Tiled white.

Sloping away. Spotless. A chair at its centre, a drain in the

floor. What a strange way to make a living, he thought, then

smiled, people probably said the same about him.

He flicked through the photos while she spoke on the

phone. He wondered how Jon could not have known about

Jake’s self-mutilations. Their relationship intrigued him. Why

would someone take in such a seriously scarred man? But if

Jon hadn’t known? Still, it was hard to fathom, especially

with the old man dead with that book in his pocket. Perhaps

it would have been better to ask Jon to stay, keep an eye

on him.

‘Sorry about that.’ She’d put the phone down, was staring

at him. ‘I used to have a receptionist but then we got divorced.

Have to do it all myself now.’

He didn’t know what to say so he showed her the photos.

She sat down and looked at them slowly, like an old woman

seeing her grandchildren’s holiday snaps, except the kids are

so small that she has to squint, to make them take form out

of the blur. She made little sounds — like appreciation? Van

Hijn couldn’t tell.

‘Definitely.’ She was nodding. ‘This man’s like a walking

textbook of body modification. Very impressive.’

‘Ever seen him before?’ He handed her the face shot.

‘I’d recognize those markings before I recognized a face,

but no, never seen him. I definitely would have remembered.’

He felt a slight sinking, familiar as hell. ‘Anything else you

can tell me?’

She looked back at the photos. Took one out. Pointed.

Her nails were painted a deep blood red. Van Hijn looked

from them to the photo. ‘This. This is from suspension.’

‘Suspension?’ It was a new world. One of many that

existed congruent with our own, occasionally touching or

leaking in. He looked at her and wondered how she’d got

into this — the former husband, a lover, something else? Was

he just being prejudiced again? He wasn’t sure, wasn’t sure

at all if he’d wonder the same thing about a man.

‘From flesh hooks. Big in Native American ceremonies.

Big in modification circles too. The true test of a person, if

you will.’

‘So, not everybody does this?’

‘No, not at all. Most people come for ordinary piercings.

That’s what I do. Nose. Lips. Ears. Belly. Some pop star’s

done it and there’s a rush. That’s how it goes. But that’s just