Reckoning Point, стр. 3

Although it is summer it is damp and the fog has bought a chill along with it, so Bram pulls on his heavy woollen coat and black scarf. He peers in the mirror hanging above the small sink in the corner of the room and smoothes down his grey, thinning hair, before clamping his black fedora in place on his head.

It is cold outside, and eerily deserted at this time of night. Bram pauses on his doorstep, looks both ways down the street and then walks down across the road towards the canal. The water is dark and murky, not a ripple in sight. He shivers, shoves his hands in his pockets and begins to walk to where he was earlier, the only sound the clicking of his boots on the cobbles, resonating off the tall buildings that surround him.

It doesn’t take long to reach Doublestraat and he stops short a few metres from the dumpster where he had been only hours before.

Her shoes are still there, placed on the cobblestones, toes pointing towards him, unmoved and not replaced back on the lovely feet of the owner.

He moves past them, making sure to give them a wide berth, as though the girl will suddenly appear standing in them, shouting at him in her usual rough, disrespectful way.

Soon he is at the bridge and as he stands in the shelter of the concrete structure he looks around him. Nothing here, so he walks on, looks left and right, squinting down the alleyways that branch off the main road. Click, click, his boots keep in rhythm with the beat of his heart, drumming out a warning on the pavement, ensuring he keeps moving on, knowing for some unfathomable reason that he will find the shoe owner eventually.

And there, what is that? A sudden silence befalls the night as a hint of light catches his eye and he stops walking. He checks left, right and behind him before moving into the narrow alley. Halfway up he stops by the pile of six or so garbage bags sitting outside and hands on knees, he peers closer.

It is a foot, pointing obscenely out from between the black sacks and he rights himself, looks behind him again, then up at the building, making sure no lights are on, taking care that no one is watching him.

He plants his left hand on the wall, raises his right foot, and with his boot he knocks the black bag on top to the floor. The bag isn’t done up tightly, and a landslide of old food leftovers and rubbish falls into the street. He freezes, and once he is sure that no glass bottles or tin cans are going to announce his presence, he turns his attention back. Her face is exposed now, glassy eyes with a note of fury and fear in them gazing unseeingly up at him. He inhales sharply, blinks down at her and shakes his head in an almost disappointed manner. He lets his eyes travel down her body, catches a glimpse of something, a colour, out of contrast with the white of her body and the black of the bags. He topples another bag with his foot, leans down and squints, wishing he had bought a torch or even a match to strike that would help his night vision. Getting as close as he dares he studies her right shoulder. It is blood that he sees, and to his aging eyes it looks like someone has attempted to skin this girl.

Bram straightens up, puts his hands on his fedora as if to reassure himself it is still there. So he was right, about the weird patch of skin. He breathes out noisily through his nose. These girls, what they allow to be done to them, all for a few crumpled, dirty, Euro notes. With his lips pressed tight together and with one fleeting glance at the dead girl, he turns tail and hurries back to his home.