CHAPTER 13

       Amsterdam, Keizer’s Basement nightclub, 14 May

      ‘Nikolay?’ George asked. ‘Who the hell is Nikolay?’ She flipped the tap on and started to pour the first glass of beer from a new barrel. Channelling Aunty Sharon, who had spent the last two decades pulling pints in Soho. Maybe barmaiding was in the blood. The foam started to spurt, shooting up to the rim of the glass, covering George’s hand and T-shirt in sticky alcoholic ejaculate. Maybe barmaiding wasn’t in the blood. ‘Ugh. Grim, man. I’m gonna kill Van den Bergen,’ she muttered in English, wiping her hand on a bar towel.

      ‘He’s the Czech gangster I was telling you about.’ At her feet, her cocktail-shaking compatriot Tom was methodically stacking a beer fridge. Whispering, lest he be overheard by the manager. ‘I’ve heard the bouncers talking about him.’

      Nikolay. Nikolay. George committed the name to memory. The first decent lead she had managed to generate in ten nights of working as a cack-handed barmaid in five different clubs across the city.

      ‘Move aside for the expert.’ Tom stood. Playfully, he pushed her out of the way and started to tinker expertly with the beer tap until it produced a steady amber stream. ‘There you go,’ he said. ‘I’ve got the magic touch.’ He winked at her.

      George was relieved he couldn’t see her blush. Eyeing his wiry, hairy forearms, she reasoned that they were the right kind of forearms. But she hated his bitten nails. Had a sudden urge to ask him why he took such good care of his hair and body and yet neglected his hands. Bitten nails made George wince inwardly. Focus, tit! You’re not here to check out some strange guy’s forearms or his hand hygiene. ‘Nikolay,’ she said. ‘So the dealers who work in here flog his gear?’

      ‘Oh yeah,’ Tom said, grinning, as though he were pleased at having insider information with which to impress this inquisitive new barmaid. ‘They used to just deliver to order outside. Turning up on mopeds like pizza guys. But they’ve got braver in the past year and you can spot them on the dancefloor if you know what to look for. I reckon the bouncers must be taking a cut. Nobody ever sees the man himself, though. You wouldn’t catch Nikolay on house night in crappy Keizer’s Basement, that’s for sure. Apparently, he’s the stuff of legend. Like some Scarface type, except he deals meth and other chems.’

      ‘What? Like whizz?’

      He laughed. ‘Nobody takes whizz anymore.’ Derision in his voice, as though George had said something preposterous, like an ageing parent trying to be cool. ‘Ecstasy’s popular again, but mainly it’s all crystal meth and mephedrone now. Where have you been for the last couple of years?!’

      ‘Writing my book. I told you!’ she said, treating him to a winning smile; having to suppress the desperate urge to flip him the bird. Calm down, dick. Shove your ego back in your box. It’s not his fault. He doesn’t know the first thing about you. He’s fresh out of college and a wet-behind-the-ears middle-class kid on his gap yah. ‘I’m doing this shitty barmaiding job for research. Where else am I going to get inspiration for a novel about drug-dealing and gangs and the underworld?’ She widened her eyes dramatically.

      ‘That’s so cool that you’re a writer.’ Tom leaned on the bar, as though the club was not opening in only fifteen minutes. ‘I wish I could do something arty like that.’ Smiling away. Blowing smoke up her arse in a way Van den Bergen never did.

      ‘Well, I’m pretty sure you’ve got some brilliant anecdotes up your sleeve. I can tell you’ve lived.’

      He nodded enthusiastically. ‘I suppose so. I’ve been working bars all over France, Germany and Belgium since graduation. I mean, why the hell would I wanna rush back to a job in some mind-numbing call centre in Leeds, if I’m lucky? I’m not ready to wear a suit and do the nine to five bollocks!’

      ‘Hmm,’ George said absently, studying Tom’s white teeth for signs of food. ‘Come on, then. Tell me your cool stories about this Nikolay guy.’

      He leaned in conspiratorially. A little too close. The intimacy sucked the oxygen out of the air. ‘I’ve heard his name dropped in several of the places I’ve worked. I like that sort of thing. You know? True life crime and dat.’ He stood tall. Crossed his arms, hip-hop style.

      ‘You didn’t just say “and dat” did you?’ Pushing the bar towel into his hands, George shook her head disapprovingly and started to stack clean glasses on a shelf.

      An awkward silence between them descended, smothering any further conversation, until the manager strode over, giving them both instructions for the evening.

      ‘I want you to mop the toilets through before we open,’ he told George, wiping his sweaty forehead on the sleeve of his black shirt.

      The pasty-faced lump was probably younger than she was, she assessed. He spoke with a strong Limburg accent. Almost certainly some southern farmer’s son, who had moved to Amsterdam for a taste of life in the fast lane.

      ‘I’m not mopping the toilets,’ she said. ‘I’m here as temporary bar staff.’

      The manager stared at her, slack-jawed. More surprise in his expression than annoyance. ‘You’re a temp. And I’m your boss. You do as I say if you want to get paid.’

      George was just about to tell him to go fuck himself. Remembered that Van den Bergen and the families of the floaters were relying on her. She grabbed the bucket and mop. Waited until the manager’s back was turned and mouthed ‘fat wanker’ at the back of his head. Shook her closed fist sideways.

      ‘You crack me up,’ Tom said, a wry smile on his face.

      ‘You’d be fit if you grew your nails and didn’t have a load of tats,’ George said, pointing at the inked roses and foliage that scrolled just beneath the sleeve of his T-shirt. ‘And got rid of that unhygienic bloody thing in your nose.’ Gesticulating with her chin towards his piercing.

      ‘Thanks,’ Tom said. ‘You are fit. But you’d be fitter still, if you didn’t blurt out the fucked-up contents of your head.’

      George filled the bucket with soapy hot water. ‘You have no idea what’s going on in my head.’ She eyed his crotch and grinned.

      ‘Are you flirting with me?’ he asked.

      Feeling like she’d overstepped an invisible line, George looked down at the bucket. Thought about Van den Bergen, spending long days trying to chase down bad guys in some seventh level of hell that only policemen, prison workers, criminologists and forensic pathologists occupied; spending long nights next to her in the bed that they shared, trying to scorch away the stench of death and corruption in the fires of their passion … when they weren’t at each other’s throats. Which she perversely relished. ‘No. I’m not flirting. Sorry,’ she said. Looked back up and tried her damnedest to wear an expression that was encouraging and friendly only. ‘But I do want to hear more about this Czech dude. He sounds