...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.
