Reckoning Point, стр. 2

1

ALEX

SOHO WHISKEY CLUB, OLD COMPTON STREET, LONDON

3.7.15 Lunchtime

Alex Harvey stares down at the shot glass, swirls the amber liquid around and bringing it up to his face, he inhales deeply. Pausing just for a second he closes his eyes, throws it back and slams the empty glass back on the bar.

“Another, sir?” the bartender discreetly removes the glass and simultaneously wipes the ring of condensation away from the walnut counter.

Alex nods and moments later a fresh glass of Macallan single malt is placed in front of him.

In the dark recess of his mind he knows that if he is planning to get hammered, a good old Johnnie Walker would be marginally less expensive, but now, in the darkness and relative anonymity of the Soho Whiskey Club, the money doesn’t matter.

If she was here, they’d be drinking gin, Bombay or Gordon’s, none of this fancy shit. She always turned her nose up when he got flashy, which was hard for him to accept, having always enjoyed the finer things in life. But, he thinks morosely, he can’t ignore how good his life was when she was with him, when she bought him down a peg or two, when she made him look at the world from ground level.

She’s been gone ten days but to Alex it feels like ten years. One day she was there, recovering from the awful, horrifying ordeal in Chernobyl the month before. She had been quiet; of course she had, after all she had suffered unthinkable torture at the hands of that psychopath, she had been lucky to escape with her life intact. Not that it was intact, not with the invasive clinical procedures and tests she still had to endure, of which he had no idea if she had arranged or gone through with.

They were not partners; they had enjoyed a one night stand that had looked like it was in the process of looking very likely to lead to something more, something special, so all Alex could do was hover on the fringes of her life, letting her know he was there to be her support, but without crowding her.

And then, ten days prior, she had upped and left. No note and no forwarding address. Not even a telephone call or text to say she was safe.

He snorts with laughter, earning a glance from the bartender. He tries to control himself and buries his head in his hands as he feels his mirth turning into a sob that catches in his throat. It’s the drink, he tells himself, because in a sober state Alex Harvey would never allow himself to get anywhere near crying, not over a girl. Not over anything. Ever.

And now, instead of feeling morose, he is annoyed. It’s so ironic; she has now done to him what her own aunt – the woman that raised her – had done to her. And she should know better than anyone what abandonment feels like.

Idly he wonders if she has gone back to Chernobyl. It is secure now, what with Niko the psychopath and Fat Arnja, the corrupt policeman, dead and all. Once again the village of Pripyat would be a harmonious, albeit not medically safe, place to be. And her family are there, Sissy, the aunt that raised her from birth, Klim, the man that may or may not be her biological father and his friend or partner, (that part was never really clear to Alex,) Sol.

Alex raises his hand; a miniscule gesture that captures the attention of the bartender and immediately he is there, pouring another Macallan.

As Alex drinks it, slower this time, as he tries to organise his thoughts. Maybe he should contact Sissy and see if she has turned up there. To hell with giving Elian time and space, he has needs too, he has never let himself feel this way about anyone before, and Alex is damned if he’s going to give up on her easily. Because his whole personality might have been turned upside down by her, and inside out, but that part, the determination, that is still intact.

He slams the glass down again, the remnants of the fire burning its way down his throat, and slaps a wad of notes on the counter.

I’m coming for you, Elian. And this time when I find you, I’m not letting you go.

2

THE DOCTOR

HOLLAND SPOOR

3.7.15 Early hours

The doctor is called Bram Bastiaan and he works out of his small home next to the Holland Spoor. He is registered with the GG&GD Municipal Health Service but is mostly left alone out here, which suits him just fine.

This is his patch; the three Red Light Districts (RLD’s) belong to him, or rather the girls do, plus the Tipplezone, although as business there is mainly conducted from cars he isn’t able to pay too much attention to what goes on. But the other streets, especially the two slightly lower quality ones – Poeldukesestraat and the Holland Spoor – those are his territory. And it makes what happened there a few hours ago very troublesome, very troublesome indeed.

It is the darkest hour now, that strange time between ink-black night and dawn and he moves over to the window and looks outside. The mist, though thinner than it was a couple of hours prior, is still hanging low over the canal. Visibility is poor, even more so to his sixty year old eyes and he knows that if he wants to find out if his memory and vision served him correctly, he is going