Read Online The Girl Who Wouldn’t Die by Marnie Riches - Free Book Online
Authors: Marnie Riches
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he had arrived. That feeling had long since evaporated. With every bite of his foie gras on toast, he wanted to tell them both to drop dead. Drop dead, drop dead, drop dead.
Every Christmas, the enmity surged inside him like a noxious, mushrooming cloud. Mother would be condescending and would take his sister’s side in some ill-informed debate about politics, made tedious by the fact that his mother and sister were intensely conservative and ignorant of anything that happened outside of the Netherlands. His sister would belittle him at the dining table and then spend the evening boasting about how well her legal practice was doing and how successful her Swiss paediatric consultant husband was (he would be there, of course, if it weren’t for the fact that he was saving precious little lives on Christmas Day).
‘I said, when are you going to get yourself a woman, Vim?’ his mother asked.
Her beautifully made-up eyes peered at him over her Bulgari spectacles. Fennemans realised she had been waiting for an answer for more than thirty seconds. He had been too lost in a labyrinth of his own hostility to hear her.
His sister snorted and collected up the empty starter plates. ‘Vim get a woman? Come on, Mum!’ She turned to him with an unpleasant smile. It was as though he had never grown beyond the age of ten, with Sofie, the favoured twin; older by fourteen minutes, preferred by a country mile and indulged without temperance once his father, the erstwhile arbitrator, had been taken by his dicky ticker that Mother had fed to bursting point with butter and cream and fatty pork. ‘Who’d have him with his cheese feet and boring jazz collection?’
‘Okay. That’s it. I’m going,’ he said, rising from his chair quickly.
Last year, he had contemplated doing this but this year, he was really doing it. He was walking away.
‘Sit down, Vim. I’ve made venison,’ his mother said.
He slammed the door behind him. That felt good. He crunched down the gravel drive. That felt better. Got into the car, drove around the corner out of sight and parked up. He pressed the buttons on his mobile phone.
‘It’s Fennemans,’ he said. ‘Look, you’ve got your money now. We’re straight, aren’t we?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘Well, can I see the girls this evening? I need to unwind.’
‘I’m away on business.’
Fennemans looked out of the windscreen at the sprawling, well-tended houses and gardens that suffocated him on all sides. ‘Please. I’m your best customer, aren’t I? You said it yourself. Can’t you make a call?’
There was a pause and some laboured breathing at the other end of the phone. ‘Six o’clock at the house. Bring cash and give it to Aunty Fadilla.’
Fennemans hung up, gripped his steering wheel and allowed himself to exhale slowly through pursed lips. He reached over to the glove box and took out the packet of cigarettes that he kept there as an emergency. One wouldn’t hurt. He took out the box of matches and lit up, enjoying the nicotine rush as it slapped him about the head. Smiling to himself, he tossed the match out of the car window.
‘Of course you can come in,’ Janneke’s mother said to van den Bergen, holding the door wide.
Though the rims of her eyes were bloodshot, van den Bergen could see the likeness between the mother and the photo of the dead daughter that had been stapled to the case notes, accidentally left in his in-tray by the Christmas admin temp.
She wrung her hands. ‘They’ve only just let me come back and clear up. I was at my sister’s when I heard. I don’t really want to be …’ Her words tailed off and headed down a blind alley.
Van den Bergen smelled death and grief in the air. It made his hip ache.
‘I’m very sorry for your loss, Mrs Polman.’
He looked around the tidy house and felt empty on the woman’s behalf when he saw the Christmas tree with its fairy lights turned off. There was a large dark stain on the wood floor.
‘Would you
Every Christmas, the enmity surged inside him like a noxious, mushrooming cloud. Mother would be condescending and would take his sister’s side in some ill-informed debate about politics, made tedious by the fact that his mother and sister were intensely conservative and ignorant of anything that happened outside of the Netherlands. His sister would belittle him at the dining table and then spend the evening boasting about how well her legal practice was doing and how successful her Swiss paediatric consultant husband was (he would be there, of course, if it weren’t for the fact that he was saving precious little lives on Christmas Day).
‘I said, when are you going to get yourself a woman, Vim?’ his mother asked.
Her beautifully made-up eyes peered at him over her Bulgari spectacles. Fennemans realised she had been waiting for an answer for more than thirty seconds. He had been too lost in a labyrinth of his own hostility to hear her.
His sister snorted and collected up the empty starter plates. ‘Vim get a woman? Come on, Mum!’ She turned to him with an unpleasant smile. It was as though he had never grown beyond the age of ten, with Sofie, the favoured twin; older by fourteen minutes, preferred by a country mile and indulged without temperance once his father, the erstwhile arbitrator, had been taken by his dicky ticker that Mother had fed to bursting point with butter and cream and fatty pork. ‘Who’d have him with his cheese feet and boring jazz collection?’
‘Okay. That’s it. I’m going,’ he said, rising from his chair quickly.
Last year, he had contemplated doing this but this year, he was really doing it. He was walking away.
‘Sit down, Vim. I’ve made venison,’ his mother said.
He slammed the door behind him. That felt good. He crunched down the gravel drive. That felt better. Got into the car, drove around the corner out of sight and parked up. He pressed the buttons on his mobile phone.
‘It’s Fennemans,’ he said. ‘Look, you’ve got your money now. We’re straight, aren’t we?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘Well, can I see the girls this evening? I need to unwind.’
‘I’m away on business.’
Fennemans looked out of the windscreen at the sprawling, well-tended houses and gardens that suffocated him on all sides. ‘Please. I’m your best customer, aren’t I? You said it yourself. Can’t you make a call?’
There was a pause and some laboured breathing at the other end of the phone. ‘Six o’clock at the house. Bring cash and give it to Aunty Fadilla.’
Fennemans hung up, gripped his steering wheel and allowed himself to exhale slowly through pursed lips. He reached over to the glove box and took out the packet of cigarettes that he kept there as an emergency. One wouldn’t hurt. He took out the box of matches and lit up, enjoying the nicotine rush as it slapped him about the head. Smiling to himself, he tossed the match out of the car window.
‘Of course you can come in,’ Janneke’s mother said to van den Bergen, holding the door wide.
Though the rims of her eyes were bloodshot, van den Bergen could see the likeness between the mother and the photo of the dead daughter that had been stapled to the case notes, accidentally left in his in-tray by the Christmas admin temp.
She wrung her hands. ‘They’ve only just let me come back and clear up. I was at my sister’s when I heard. I don’t really want to be …’ Her words tailed off and headed down a blind alley.
Van den Bergen smelled death and grief in the air. It made his hip ache.
‘I’m very sorry for your loss, Mrs Polman.’
He looked around the tidy house and felt empty on the woman’s behalf when he saw the Christmas tree with its fairy lights turned off. There was a large dark stain on the wood floor.
‘Would you
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