sheet of glass from a nearby house blew out onto the street.
‘Any witnesses?’ van den Bergen asked. The heat was overwhelming. A thick slick of sweat had already started to cling to his body.
Teun looked over at ambulances already swallowing up casualties and at the fire trucks that lined the street – motherships, connected by hoses to their battling fire crew. He blinked hard and wiped his sooty glasses on his shirt. ‘Not a fucking thing, would you believe it?’
Van den Bergen nodded sagely. ‘Same in Amsterdam.’ He watched as evacuees trod gingerly over the glass that littered the pavement. Grimaced and wept as they looked up at the flames and their ruined apartments. ‘How many dead or injured?’
‘There’s a few neighbours with lacerations from their windows blowing in. But there didn’t seem to be anyone walking on the street when the bomb went off.’ Teun shouted over the hiss of the hoses.
‘Christmas Eve. Everyone’s either in with family or out drinking,’ van den Bergen said, watching a weeping man as he was ushered to the place of safety beyond the police cordon. Beneath the blanket that covered the man’s shoulders, van den Bergen saw that he clutched a little girl of about four to his chest. Her forehead was covered in blood.
‘It’s impossible to know how many were inside the wreckage until the fire’s out,’ Teun said. ‘But we did find a bit of what we think is the suicide bomber. As soon as we arrived. It had been blown right out of range of the fire.’
‘A bit?’
‘A big bit.’
Chapter 6
25 December
As George applied her lipstick, she wondered if Ad had lingered well into the evening, delaying his journey home because of her. More likely because of the Utrecht bomb, she decided.
Wearing her usual tight-fitting jeans, a T-shirt that smelled strongly of washing liquid and thick Primark cardigan that had started to bobble under the arms, she had made no attempt to look festive beyond the slick of colour on her full lips. Like Jan and Katja, her makeshift Christmas family, would give a shit!
She shrugged at her reflection in the mirror. Then she picked up the framed photograph that she had got an elderly American tourist to take of her and Ad back in October. They had been standing beneath the impressive arched portico of the Rijksmuseum, which Ad had offered to show her around. She was grinning like a fool at the camera. Ad’s arm was draped around her shoulder. He smiled uncertainly, as though he had been caught with his fingers in the proverbial cookie jar.
‘Merry Christmas, Ad,’ she said.
She blew a kiss at the photograph, pulled on her Puffa jacket and left for Jan’s in good time. As she undid the locks on her bike, she looked around and missed the pair of eyes that were fixed intently on her.
‘Merry Christmas, darling,’ Katja said, showering George in sticky pink kisses.
George immediately wiped her cheek with the back of her hand like a horrified child expunging the kisses of a hairy-chinned great aunt.
Katja seemed unaware of the tacit rejection. She took off the tinsel that was hanging around her waist like a belt and wrapped it around Jan’s neck. ‘I love Christmas. Such a shame it’s not snowing. The one thing I really miss about Polish Christmases is the snow.’
Katja gazed towards the window wearing an almost wistful expression. She pulled her bright red hair back in a ponytail and quickly turned her attention to Jan’s food preparation. ‘But what the hell is that you’re cooking, darling? It looks like a dish of festive turds.’
Katja peered over Jan’s shoulder and into the large crock pot that he was stirring. George sidled up on his left and saw that he did in fact seem to be preparing stewed turds.
‘Is this some vegetarian crap?’ George asked, wrinkling her nose.
Jan banged the spoon on the side of the crock pot and looked at her with a raised eyebrow through his steamed-up Trotsky glasses. His roll-up cigarette hung
‘Any witnesses?’ van den Bergen asked. The heat was overwhelming. A thick slick of sweat had already started to cling to his body.
Teun looked over at ambulances already swallowing up casualties and at the fire trucks that lined the street – motherships, connected by hoses to their battling fire crew. He blinked hard and wiped his sooty glasses on his shirt. ‘Not a fucking thing, would you believe it?’
Van den Bergen nodded sagely. ‘Same in Amsterdam.’ He watched as evacuees trod gingerly over the glass that littered the pavement. Grimaced and wept as they looked up at the flames and their ruined apartments. ‘How many dead or injured?’
‘There’s a few neighbours with lacerations from their windows blowing in. But there didn’t seem to be anyone walking on the street when the bomb went off.’ Teun shouted over the hiss of the hoses.
‘Christmas Eve. Everyone’s either in with family or out drinking,’ van den Bergen said, watching a weeping man as he was ushered to the place of safety beyond the police cordon. Beneath the blanket that covered the man’s shoulders, van den Bergen saw that he clutched a little girl of about four to his chest. Her forehead was covered in blood.
‘It’s impossible to know how many were inside the wreckage until the fire’s out,’ Teun said. ‘But we did find a bit of what we think is the suicide bomber. As soon as we arrived. It had been blown right out of range of the fire.’
‘A bit?’
‘A big bit.’
Chapter 6
25 December
As George applied her lipstick, she wondered if Ad had lingered well into the evening, delaying his journey home because of her. More likely because of the Utrecht bomb, she decided.
Wearing her usual tight-fitting jeans, a T-shirt that smelled strongly of washing liquid and thick Primark cardigan that had started to bobble under the arms, she had made no attempt to look festive beyond the slick of colour on her full lips. Like Jan and Katja, her makeshift Christmas family, would give a shit!
She shrugged at her reflection in the mirror. Then she picked up the framed photograph that she had got an elderly American tourist to take of her and Ad back in October. They had been standing beneath the impressive arched portico of the Rijksmuseum, which Ad had offered to show her around. She was grinning like a fool at the camera. Ad’s arm was draped around her shoulder. He smiled uncertainly, as though he had been caught with his fingers in the proverbial cookie jar.
‘Merry Christmas, Ad,’ she said.
She blew a kiss at the photograph, pulled on her Puffa jacket and left for Jan’s in good time. As she undid the locks on her bike, she looked around and missed the pair of eyes that were fixed intently on her.
‘Merry Christmas, darling,’ Katja said, showering George in sticky pink kisses.
George immediately wiped her cheek with the back of her hand like a horrified child expunging the kisses of a hairy-chinned great aunt.
Katja seemed unaware of the tacit rejection. She took off the tinsel that was hanging around her waist like a belt and wrapped it around Jan’s neck. ‘I love Christmas. Such a shame it’s not snowing. The one thing I really miss about Polish Christmases is the snow.’
Katja gazed towards the window wearing an almost wistful expression. She pulled her bright red hair back in a ponytail and quickly turned her attention to Jan’s food preparation. ‘But what the hell is that you’re cooking, darling? It looks like a dish of festive turds.’
Katja peered over Jan’s shoulder and into the large crock pot that he was stirring. George sidled up on his left and saw that he did in fact seem to be preparing stewed turds.
‘Is this some vegetarian crap?’ George asked, wrinkling her nose.
Jan banged the spoon on the side of the crock pot and looked at her with a raised eyebrow through his steamed-up Trotsky glasses. His roll-up cigarette hung
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