Slow Poison Chapter One - have a read on me!

...and why not? Here's Chapter One of Slow Poison as published on Amazon - click here for the link: Slow Poison on Amazon

(Let me know what you think and I'll post Chapter Two...)

Chapter One

Amsterdam, December 6th

A man was waiting for The Six, huddled in Armani camel, watching the doorway of the Casa Rosa. The red lights glowed like cinders in the crisp December air. Snow had not yet fallen, but the night was keen with pre-frost whispers. This was the third night and they were repeating the ragged routine of the past two days, clattering noisily through the back streets toward the plush surroundings of the Victoria Hotel. Bulls they were, looking for china shops.

Den, Pete, 'Dog' Barker, Mart, Kev and Richie; careering through the City of Love, leaving a trail of phlegm and expensive scratches, yob-high on Mercedes lacquer.

On that first evening in the Victoria, they had exploded into the restaurant, destroying his reverie. On an impulse he had followed them into the night. They could be useful. He would need someone like them. He closed the leather-bound diary he was reading to watch the swell and swagger of denim. His chest felt tight, his mouth was dry and he hardened. The city was nervous of them. Wild things, sniffing the cosmopolitan air like rutting beasts.

On the morning of the third day, he had watched them spew through the steel exit doors of the Sleep-Inn on the Rozengracht, groping their way into the bright winter sunshine, unwashed and unshaven, a breakfast of beer in progress. He watched them gesticulate and curse at the waves of cyclists teetering through their group, bells clamouring.

'Fuckin' Cloggies! Why don't ya watch where yer fuckin' goin'..? '

When at last The Six emerged from the deep red core of the Casa Rosa, he limped behind them as closely as he could.  They roared on before him down the urinous alleyways of The Walletjes, singing their City anthems in tuneless tenors and baritones. Few windows in those dark clefts escaped the lick of their Pentels.

He watched them crumble their hash into roll-ups in shadowy doorways. He watched one of them crack the window of a Showarma bar on the Kloveniersburgwal, watched them run from the honing steel of the Israeli owner who chased after them, cursing them in Hebrew. He located them again, homing in on the noise. They stormed the Victoria. The waiters armed themselves with small change and haughty sneers.

'Shit! ', said one of them, built like a flamenco dancer. 'The scum are back!’

They stomped their way into the hotel, rattling the ashtrays and coffee cups in the glazed sidewalk conservatory.

'You don't know nuffin about fucking tactics...'

'Lissen! The fuckin' ref was well out of order.'

'Yeah…yeah... '

So much sarcasm squeezed into two little words.

'Who was there? Well...go on...I was fuckin' well there..!'

The man sat at a corner table and felt for the diary in his coat pocket and laid it on the table. The flamenco waiter was suddenly at his shoulder, pen poised.

‘Meneer?’

'Spa Citroen, alsjeblieft.'

The man turned to the diary. He glanced at a yellowed page, at pencil marks that had faded almost to invisibility. In the half-light of the piano bar, it was hard to make out the words. He pulled the decorative candle closer, but not too close. Just near enough to enable reading.

'July 3rd 1939. The summer cottage. The two of us, sequestered in pastoral seclusion. Lowing cattle, bleating rams, sheep. We find green berries ripening in the hedgerow. Behind the cottage, wisps of early mist rise above the clover. Ghosts, listlessly undecided between earthly delights and paradise...’

He struggled over the forgotten words, this disease of a language that none of their droning had prepared him for. His heart slowed to its regular beat as the two couples looked up at the noise. The Six were mobile again, slamming themselves into the outer edge of the Bechstein.

The man closed the diary and leaned back into the shadows. He sipped his Spa Citroen and looked around the bar. He lit a Sobranie and blew the smoke into the candle flame. At the other table, two couples were giving their orders to the flamenco waiter. He tapped out a staccato exit into the blaze of the kitchen lights.

'The whole damn place is full of the bloody English tonight’ he muttered to the kitchen staff. It was true. The piano bar was occupied solely by the English. By coincidence and chance.  

In the street a barrel organ played, catching the last of the rush hour crowds, infusing the air with merry calliope renditions of Arlen and Berlin tunes. Inside, the Bechstein resonated with the percussive rapping of the grubby fingers of The Six. 'Fuck this and fuck that...'

The two couples sat at their table half-hidden from the man. Fretwork shadows played over their faces, candlelight gleaming in their eyes. The men and one of the women were in their early forties, the other woman was younger. Glyn and Janet, Fred and Becky.

Fred Farthing was a big muscular man. Black hair, brush-cut, and a broad tanned face with full lips part hidden by a bushy moustache. He sat grinning, his fat unmanicured fingers curled around his glass, warming the cheap champagne.

'I'm looking forward to this!', said Fred, rubbing his ample belly.

'You eat too much for your own good!', laughed Becky.

'When I lose sight of me shoes, I'll start worrying!'

'It's not yer shoes you should be worrying about!' said Glyn.

Glyn Wood was plump, with wispy ginger hair showing advanced signs of receding. He and his wife Janet were holidaying with the Farthings. The party were in a bright mood. This evening's meal was Fred's treat. Glyn had done the honours the night before. Champagne and a small phial of AnaisAnais for each of the ladies. Glyn was a software salesman, his first respectable job. Janet all M&S and Waitrose, worked in 'Pumpkin Pie', a wholefood restaurant in Stroud. Glyn and Janet were pleasant friends.

'Right!'

Fred was standing, raised glass in hand.

'I'VE got a surprise for the girls tonight.'

He winked knowingly at Glyn, who smiled bemusedly. Fred handed Becky and Janet a small gift-wrapped cube, first to Becky, then to Janet. Sinterklaas paper. A sticker read 'SURPRISE' Fred watched them both excitedly with his grin widening across his flushed face.

'Oh, Fred... it's beautiful..!'

Inside the packages were small black cases, which hinged open to reveal tiny diamond pendants hanging from fine gold chains.

'Oh, Fred...I don't know what to say...I've never seen anything so lovely...' said Becky.

Fred moved behind Becky's chair. He helped her clasp the pendant around her neck. He stooped to kiss the nape of her neck before sitting down.

'Love you!' He whispered.

Janet held her gold chain taut, sending the diamond spinning, catching candlelight in the facets, filling dark filigree shadows with unwanted light. The man started at the unaccustomed brilliance.

'Come on, Glyn - do the honours!'

Janet angled her neck so that Glyn too could act the gallant. He fumbled with the clasp and leaned over to Fred.

'I dunno Fred, you're a dark horse. I wondered where you went thisafty.'

Glyn put his arm around Janet's shoulder as he sat down. Becky smiled at Janet. Fred slipped his big hand between Becky's thighs under the cover of the tablecloth and drew her attention back to him.

'I must say WE were wondering where you'd got to as well.' Said Janet in a voice full of mock rebuke, 'This is a wicked city for an innocent little lad like you to be let loose in...' Right Becky?

The meal arrived. Steak, chips, runner beans from a can, applesauce and limp winter lettuce. A wholly unsuitable last supper. The flamenco waiter left them to it.

'Great. Look at this!', Said Fred, sprinkling his meal liberally with salt and pepper. They all helped themselves to the vegetables and salad and began to eat.

'Oh god..!' Becky spluttered into her napkin,' My beans taste of Lifebuoy Soap.'

Becky explored her mouth with a tentative tongue, wary of what else she might discover.

Fred knew the taste of Lifebuoy Soap. Oh yes. Stonehouse Primary. Caught saying 'bugger' during morning assembly. During the Lord's Prayer.

'Our Mother, who art in the kitchen, buggered be thy tits...'

Horsefall had pounced, his thunderclap voice riveting the gigglers and fiddlers to the spot.

'FARTHING!'

Fred, eight, was lifted inches from the ground by the scruff of his grimy neck, and carried into the cloakroom. The cloakroom; pegs in rows, names and pictures, coats and hats, and at the far end the double sink.

'You vile little insect!', Horsefall hissed into his face. The stench of peppermints made Fred fart.

 'WHAT ARE YOU?'

'...insect sir...'

'AND WHAT DO WE DO WITH FOUL MOUTHED LITTLE INSECTS, FARTHING?'

Impale them with pins? Stamp on them? Cover them with chocolate and give them as booby prizes on 'Open the Box'

'Dunno sir...'

'WE MAKE SURE THEY NEVER, EVER DO IT AGAIN, INSECT!'

Horsefall picked up a bar of slimy pink Carbolic and ground it into Fred's astonished mouth. O. Horsefall panted and sweated. Fred wriggled and retched and gurgled ghastly sounds. Horsefall cuffed him about the ears for good measure and sent him flying across the cloakroom. Fred landed among the duffel coats, jarring his right elbow on the white tiled wall. He watched with a mixture pain and bemusement as Horsefall leaned back against the wall, panting heavily, eyes closed, flecks of white spittle at the corners of his mouth, hands groping at his groin. Indelible ink.

Voices drifted across from the Bechstein.

'...Fuckin' will, you know! I'll fuckin' bottle 'em!'

Fred looked up, looked across, clenched his fists, and shouted at The Six.

'Keep it down, lads. There's ladies present...'

'Can't fuckin' see none!'

Fred laid his napkin down and began to rise.

'Don't be daft, mate.', Glyn echoed, 'you can see how pissed they are!'

Fred tried to ignore them, but the mood was gone, Becky was suddenly distant, swirling Merlot to freshen her mouth. Fred pulled his chair closer to the table. Glyn attempted to stitch together the lost moments.

'Here's to us!' he said, 'Cheers!'

The four friends raised their glasses once more and clinked them together. Fred finished his steak and half of Becky's in silence, and they ordered exotic ices from the flamenco waiter.

'Aaah!', said Glyn. 'This is the life'

'TWATS! I'll fuckin' 'ave 'em!'

The Bechstein.

'Coffee?'

'TWATS! I'll fuckin' nail 'em!'

'No I'll have tea.’ said Becky. 'I'm dying for a cup.'

Music filled the piano bar. Not the distant barrel organ, not the muzak from the foyer. The music came from the sextet of savage voices humping the piano.

'CIT-TEE! CIT-TEE!'

The taut strings of the grand boomed out under the flat of their callused palms.

 'CIT-TEE! CIT-TEE!'

The flamenco waiter looked on helplessly, their cropped skulls and rude tattoos beyond his wildest dreams.

 'CIT-TEE! CIT-TEE!'

Two trams in convoy rumbled down their rails toward the Dam bulging at the welds with commuters, windows dripping like monstera leaves in a sultry rain forest, passengers peering out from the safety at the straggles of vociferous groups, long December scarves in warrior colours, rattles and rosettes, echoing through the night streets and countless nervous bars.

'CIT-TEE'

The coffee came, biscuits nestling in saucers. The four shifted uneasily on their chairs.

'I thought you wanted tea.’

Fred was bristling.

'It's all right...coffee's fine...'

'I'll change it...'

'No...don't make a fuss...'

But the flamenco waiter had already escaped.

They began to make plans for the evening ahead. Glyn had tried unsuccessfully each night to steer the ladies toward the blush tints of the Red Light District.

'It's only a bit of fun. Why not?'

A party of Americans came in noisily and set the candles shivering in their slipstream. The bar was filling up.

'I'm not going into any of those shows...', Janet insisted.

'We'll just go window shopping!', Insisted Glyn. 'Just a bit of fun...that's all.'

Three girls with wet stringy hair came through from the foyer and sat at a table near the window, near the man. The flamenco waiter glided in to serve the party of Americans with their Cokes and beers. Fred called him over on his way back to the kitchen.

'Waiter...'

Castanets. A poised pen. A trembling hand.

'We'll have some more coffee, and some Drambuie...'

Fred covered a noiseless burp with his hand and shifted slightly on his chair.

'I'm off to the Gents' All this booze has got to me...'

Glyn rose and followed Fred into the foyer. Den and 'Dog' swivelled round on their bar stools. Kev muttered something under his breath that made them all snicker. Then Den and 'Dog' turned a full circle.

The Gents' was in the souterrain, reached by a dimly lit narrow flight of freestanding filigree stairs. The dainty treads were carpeted in deep purple plush. The hallway between the Heren W.C. and the basement disco was floored with terracotta. The disco, promisingly named 'Madonna's' had not yet opened. The dance floor was unlit and grimy, pitted by nights of stilettos and smouldering cigarettes. A malodorous melange of drink and perfume oozed from the open doorway. The DJ and a cocktail waitress were chatting just inside the entrance. To the left was the Heren W.C. with its three glass partitioned urinals, two blue-lit junky-proof booths, a washbasin, an air-drier, no towel, and a contraceptive machine.

'Thirty five cents for a bloody slash!' , Fred complained.

The two friends stood side by side, relieving themselves.

'Are you all right, mate? You seemed a bit funny earlier on... I dunno...'

'Nah, nothin' wrong with me, mate...', Fred replied.