Read Online The Girl Who Wouldn’t Die by Marnie Riches - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Marnie Riches
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Paco Rabanne.
‘I was passing this way,’ he said, still smiling. ‘You Brits make a big deal out of Christmas Day, don’t you? So, I just wanted to wish you a Merry Christmas.’
George took her key out of the lock and stood perfectly still. She stared at him, willing him to go away.
‘Can I come up for a drink?’ he asked.
George’s mind was racing. This was wrong in so many ways. Fennemans hated her. She hated him. This was her personal space. Her turf. He was encroaching.
‘How do you know where I live?’ she asked, taking a step towards to him so that the gap between them had closed uncomfortably. She was mindful of her body language. Careful to thrust her shoulders forwards and make herself look as threatening and large as possible. This arsehole was not to get any wrong messages. Happily, he took a step backwards.
‘I’m your tutor. I just …’ The childish smile had started to fall from his face.
‘Don’t come to my home,’ George said. She felt bolstered by the 8.5 percent alcohol content in not one, but six Duvel beers. Ordinarily, she knew she would have skirted around the issue and tried to politely brush Fennemans off. But now …
‘This is inappropriate. You’re not welcome here. It’s my space. Do you understand, Dr Fennemans?’
George stood her ground, balled fists on hips. His expression changed. The smile was suddenly replaced by something else. George couldn’t tell if it was weary resignation or annoyance. It was difficult to assess under the streetlight. But all the while she stood there, willing him to walk away without a confrontation, she was seized and held captive by a paralysing anxiety that she didn’t want him to know about. Then, with silence hanging opaquely between them, Fennemans dug one of his gloved hands into the pocket of his overcoat as though he was reaching for something.
Chapter 7
2 January
When Ad opened the door to his Museum Quarter apartment in Sluitstraat, George pushed passed him.
‘Do you know Fennemans showed up at my place over Christmas? Offered me a half-smoked packet of cigarettes as a peace offering. I told him to fuck right off. Got any of that nice Leerdammer?’ she asked.
‘Oh, Happy New Year to you too,’ Ad said, clearly bemused.
George’s brain was whirring today, processing all the information that had come her way in the last week. Al Badaar’s still-untraceable comments.
The Moment
being denounced as a pro-terror virtual rag, thanks to her blogpost. The Jewish community in Utrecht, publicly decrying the local police’s inability to arrest a perpetrator. She felt like she was riding the rollercoaster right up to the top. It was a good feeling.
She heard Ad close the door behind her. Casting a glance around the anonymous-looking boys’ living room, her gaze rested momentarily on a card which sat coyly on a bookshelf by the flatscreen TV. It had Santa Claus on the front, blushing and receiving a heart from Rudolph the red-nosed reindeer. It said, ‘Happy Christmas, Boyfriend’ in green, shiny lettering. Her rollercoaster became stuck half way up and she didn’t like the look of the drop to the ground.
George tried to marshal her thoughts. An empty food cupboard and hunger to see her friend had driven her here.
Ask him about a sandwich. Ad always has food. Focus.
Ad reached out to take her coat.
‘Coffee?’ he asked.
‘Is that card from your girlfriend?’ she heard herself say before she could claw the words back.
Damn
.
Ad frowned incredulously as his flatmate, Jasper, shuffled out of his room. Jasper, normally so preppy and clean-cut, was wearing pyjamas and scratching himself. His blond mop of hair was dishevelled. He sported a day’s worth of stubble.
‘Happy New Year, guys,’ he said in English with a thick Dutch accent. He picked up the disgusting Santa card and waved it at her. ‘Mine,’ he said. He winked at Ad.
‘You came back yesterday?’ Ad asked him.
‘Never went home. I’ve been at
‘I was passing this way,’ he said, still smiling. ‘You Brits make a big deal out of Christmas Day, don’t you? So, I just wanted to wish you a Merry Christmas.’
George took her key out of the lock and stood perfectly still. She stared at him, willing him to go away.
‘Can I come up for a drink?’ he asked.
George’s mind was racing. This was wrong in so many ways. Fennemans hated her. She hated him. This was her personal space. Her turf. He was encroaching.
‘How do you know where I live?’ she asked, taking a step towards to him so that the gap between them had closed uncomfortably. She was mindful of her body language. Careful to thrust her shoulders forwards and make herself look as threatening and large as possible. This arsehole was not to get any wrong messages. Happily, he took a step backwards.
‘I’m your tutor. I just …’ The childish smile had started to fall from his face.
‘Don’t come to my home,’ George said. She felt bolstered by the 8.5 percent alcohol content in not one, but six Duvel beers. Ordinarily, she knew she would have skirted around the issue and tried to politely brush Fennemans off. But now …
‘This is inappropriate. You’re not welcome here. It’s my space. Do you understand, Dr Fennemans?’
George stood her ground, balled fists on hips. His expression changed. The smile was suddenly replaced by something else. George couldn’t tell if it was weary resignation or annoyance. It was difficult to assess under the streetlight. But all the while she stood there, willing him to walk away without a confrontation, she was seized and held captive by a paralysing anxiety that she didn’t want him to know about. Then, with silence hanging opaquely between them, Fennemans dug one of his gloved hands into the pocket of his overcoat as though he was reaching for something.
Chapter 7
2 January
When Ad opened the door to his Museum Quarter apartment in Sluitstraat, George pushed passed him.
‘Do you know Fennemans showed up at my place over Christmas? Offered me a half-smoked packet of cigarettes as a peace offering. I told him to fuck right off. Got any of that nice Leerdammer?’ she asked.
‘Oh, Happy New Year to you too,’ Ad said, clearly bemused.
George’s brain was whirring today, processing all the information that had come her way in the last week. Al Badaar’s still-untraceable comments.
The Moment
being denounced as a pro-terror virtual rag, thanks to her blogpost. The Jewish community in Utrecht, publicly decrying the local police’s inability to arrest a perpetrator. She felt like she was riding the rollercoaster right up to the top. It was a good feeling.
She heard Ad close the door behind her. Casting a glance around the anonymous-looking boys’ living room, her gaze rested momentarily on a card which sat coyly on a bookshelf by the flatscreen TV. It had Santa Claus on the front, blushing and receiving a heart from Rudolph the red-nosed reindeer. It said, ‘Happy Christmas, Boyfriend’ in green, shiny lettering. Her rollercoaster became stuck half way up and she didn’t like the look of the drop to the ground.
George tried to marshal her thoughts. An empty food cupboard and hunger to see her friend had driven her here.
Ask him about a sandwich. Ad always has food. Focus.
Ad reached out to take her coat.
‘Coffee?’ he asked.
‘Is that card from your girlfriend?’ she heard herself say before she could claw the words back.
Damn
.
Ad frowned incredulously as his flatmate, Jasper, shuffled out of his room. Jasper, normally so preppy and clean-cut, was wearing pyjamas and scratching himself. His blond mop of hair was dishevelled. He sported a day’s worth of stubble.
‘Happy New Year, guys,’ he said in English with a thick Dutch accent. He picked up the disgusting Santa card and waved it at her. ‘Mine,’ he said. He winked at Ad.
‘You came back yesterday?’ Ad asked him.
‘Never went home. I’ve been at
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