Rain steam and speed, p.15
Rain, Steam and Speed, page 15
“Thank you. Have a nice day.”
“You speak good English,” said Owen’s first Dutch customer, as the Americans were heading out of the door.
“I am English,” laughed Owen, sensing the irony of the situation.
At the end of the day, Owen fetched in the pavement sign, and helped Kees clean the tables and chairs, sweep up, and make sure the counters were clean. All the crockery and cutlery were taken into the kitchen, to a dishwasher.
“First job in the morning is to stack the shelves with the clean things. Now, million-dollar question. Well, not million, but you know what I mean. More like two hundred and twenty-five guilders for twenty-eight and a half hours, eight-thirty to eighteen-thirty Thursdays and Fridays and alternate Saturdays and Sundays. How does that sound?”
Owen did a quick calculation in his head. He had made just under thirty guilders in tips in only one day, so compared to his wages at The Prince Albert, this was a good deal.
“Brilliant.”
“Fantastic. I’ll see you tomorrow, Friday and Saturday, this week, then. I’m so looking forward to taking a couple of days off, as soon as you are up to speed.”
“My pleasure. See you.”
Owen poked his head into the kitchen.
“Bye Ruud.”
“Bye.”
“Bye. Thanks for the job.”
“You’re welcome.”
Owen went to the nearest supermarket and bought some bread, cheese and a bottle of Coke. He wandered along the canal, crossed over and found a bench to sit and eat his evening picnic. Having crossed back, he found a bar and bought a beer, making it last an hour. When he got back to the hostel, there was another man in the shared room. He was Danish.
“Hello. My name is Aksel. I’m from Denmark.”
“I’m Owen, from the UK, although I’ve moved to Amsterdam.”
“This is a nice place.”
“Yes. How long are you in Amsterdam for?”
“Maybe one week, maybe two. Then, I will go to Brussels, and then Paris.”
Aksel spoke better English than Owen spoke Dutch, which was hardly surprising.
“I’ll see you later. I’m off out to find somewhere to eat.”
“I’ve been working all day. I’ll probably be asleep,” laughed Owen.
Aksel left and Owen went to the bathroom. As predicted, hardly had he laid down on his bunk, he was fast asleep, still fully clothed. When Aksel returned, at shortly after ten, he tried to be quiet, but somehow managed to kick the leg of Owen’s bunk, tripped and crashed into one of the lockers. Owen woke with a start.
“I’m so sorry,” mumbled Aksel.
Owen could smell that he had been smoking cannabis but said nothing. After removing his jeans and folding them under his pillow, Owen went back to bed, under his duvet, this time. Aksel was soon snoring, but Owen lay awake. He started to ponder a break from dealing. With his job at the café, as long as he had enough money to pay for food and accommodation, although he would still try to find out the Dutch laws on squatting, and enough to get a weekly heroin fix, he had money in the bank. Now he had the job, he would not be able to take any holiday, just yet, but maybe in September, he would ask for a week off. Unfortunately, that would not be long enough to take the Orient Express all the way from Paris to Istanbul and back again. It was still his hope, one day, to experience the luxury journey, with a steam locomotive, but his immediate plan was to try and get to and from Afghanistan. He only needed a day or two there, to purchase heroin at source, but he would probably have to hire a car and drive there. The whole adventure needed more time and thought, but he had all summer to finalise his plans.
Owen thoroughly enjoyed his next three days working in ‘The Coffee Room’ and he earned one hundred and eight guilders in tips, to add to his two hundred and twenty-five guilders in wages. Aksel did not wake Owen in the night again, but a third guest joined them on the Friday evening, staying until the Sunday morning. Owen could hardly believe his eyes, when Jody walked in. It was the punk-rocker from Owen’s first trip to Amsterdam.
“What are you doing here?” asked Jody. “My name’s Jody, by the way.”
“I’m Owen. I left the UK and moved here at the start of the week. Not sure where I’m going to live yet.”
“Were you on a business trip, before?”
“You could say that.”
“I’ve got a contact in the city. I come here every so often to stock up. Personal use, of course. Sometimes I bring my gran with me. She’s a wild one!”
Owen wondered if the contact was the same man, he had bought cannabis from.
“Is that the lady I saw you with the first time?”
“Yes. She brought me up. My mum was in prison and my dad had pissed off when I was three.”
“Where are you from, in the UK?”
“Ashford.”
“I used to live near Maidstone, until I moved to London.”
“Really. My sister lives in Maidstone. Small world.”
“I think my sister still lives there, but has gone off to university somewhere, no doubt.”
“My sister was at the Girls’ Grammar.”
“So was mine. They probably knew or knew of each other.”
“Unfortunately, my sister was kicked out in fifth form for getting pregnant.”
“So, you’re an uncle. That’s kind of cool.”
“I don’t see much of my nephew. Maybe I should make more of an effort?”
“Tell me. Do you just smoke your cannabis, or do you eat it?”
“Here, I mostly eat it, and in the UK, I just smoke it.”
“I work in a café. I went in there on my first journey to Amsterdam and bought a slice. It was crazy!”
“Is that ‘The Coffee Room’?”
“Yes. I’ve been there a few times, but only ate the cake once.”
“I’ll maybe see you when I’m in there, tomorrow, then? Do you want to come out for a beer, now?”
“Just the one. Sure.”
They left the hostel and walked to the bar where Owen had been earlier in the week.
“We should go Dutch,” laughed Jody. “I buy mine and you buy yours.”
“Very funny,” conceded Owen.
They sat at a vacant table.
“Don’t mind if they stare at me,” apologised Jody. “So, why Amsterdam?”
“I had a dog. It died. I needed a fresh start. I was at university, but I’ve dropped out.”
“What did you study?”
“Russian.”
“Wow! Have you picked up any Dutch?”
“I spent a few sessions in the language laboratory, before I quit university, and I pick it up here. I try to read a Dutch newspaper once a week. You?”
“A few words. Enough to get by. You’re obviously a linguist. Whereabouts in London were you?”
“Battersea. I lived in a squat for two years. An empty council flat. I want to find out what the law is here. Whether squatters have the same rights.”
“Can’t help you there, I’m afraid. Do you want me to get you some stuff tomorrow?”
“No, I’m good thanks.”
“So, why did you choose Amsterdam? Not Paris? Or Moscow, even?”
“Well Moscow didn’t seem a very good idea because we’re in the middle of the Cold War, and the Soviet Union isn’t exactly the freest county in the world. Paris is a great place to visit, but I’m not sure I would want to live there. I love the lifestyle here, and as I’d been on several business trips, I thought I’d make it more permanent.”
“What business are you in?”
“Well, I was working for someone who collected and distributed Delft pottery. I would come and pick up the merchandise and take it to the UK. They paid me well.”
“Are you sure it was only pottery?”
“What difference did it make, knowing or not knowing?”
“So, you did know, then?”
Owen grinned.
“Is that why you used Harwich and Dover?”
“Probably, although I didn’t buy the tickets.”
“And you never got stopped?”
“No. Have you? Ever been stopped?”
“Once, but it really is only for personal use, and I was able to convince them it was three months’ supply. They probably had bigger fish to fry, though. Like you, for instance!”
Owen finished his beer.
“Right. That’s me done. I’ll see you back at the hostel.”
“Are you sure I can’t tempt you with another?”
“No. Thanks, but no thanks. I want to make sure I keep this job. I can always eat cake on Sunday!”
He got up.
“Bye.”
“Laters.”
Owen walked back to the hostel, reflecting on the conversation. Jody was probably right. There must be hundreds of passengers passing through the Dutch borders, with cannabis for personal use. Customs want the hard drugs and the smuggling cartels. He got into bed and fell asleep thinking about what Helen was doing now. Had she gone to university? It was not often he thought about any of the family, these days.
Jody and Aksel were both sleeping when Owen left for work in the morning. He called in at reception to book his place and wondered if they remembered. Jody was leaving today, so it would not matter, but Aksel was not planning to go to Brussels just yet, or so Owen thought. The day at work was busier than any of the other days he had worked. It was not yet the height of the tourist season, so Saturdays still brought more customers than midweek. Lo and behold, halfway through the afternoon, Jody showed up to buy some cannabis cake. It so happened that Owen was busy with another customer, so Kees dealt with him. Owen acknowledged him, in passing.
Later that evening, when Owen returned to the hostel, neither Aksel nor Jody were anywhere to be seen, and someone had broken into Owen’s locker. His stash of cannabis was gone. To Owen’s relief, he still had the heroin for personal use in his knapsack, which he carried with him, at all times, along with his money and passport. Who was the thief? Jody? Aksel? Or someone completely different? Owen went to reception and explained to Jan, that someone had broken into his locker.
“I’m really sorry. Anything missing? It happens sometimes.”
“Nothing of any importance.”
Jan accepted his response. Owen was telling the truth, in as much as the cannabis was just for making friends and influencing people, if necessary. He was not trafficking it for someone who might cause him significant harm. That said, since he had resolved to try and avoid dealing, whilst living in Amsterdam, it was just an expensive inconvenience, rather than a major dilemma, although he did question the wisdom in having been so open with Jody about the tea service shipments.
On Sunday morning, Owen went to tell reception he would like to stay another night and paid for his bunk, again. Even if Floyd had come up trumps, Owen could not see himself sleeping any place else, tonight. He thought about going to see Floyd and Sally, on their houseboat, until he remembered it was Sunday, and they were likely to be doing something churchy. Instead, he hired a bicycle and rode out of the city, with no particular destination in mind, along the River Amstel. There was something mesmerizingly peaceful about the place. St Petersburg, Venice, Stockholm, even Birmingham, were all cities with canal networks and waterways. Owen had only been fortunate enough to visit St Petersburg, and that was more rivers than canals, but he had felt a similar peacefulness there. Realising the route was mostly flat, he made a spur of the moments decision to cycle to Utrecht. If he was too exhausted, when he got there, he could always take the train back.
Two and a half hours later, he arrived at the house on the slip of paper the cannabis dealer had given him. Nervously, he knocked on the door. A short man with black hair and glasses peered out through the window and mouthed something at Owen that he could not lip-read in Dutch. Owen pointed at the door, which opened on a chain, a few seconds later.
“I was given your name by a man in Amsterdam. He said you can sell me some heroin.”
“Yes. How much do you want?”
“I have one hundred guilders.”
“Wait there.”
The man closed the door and came back five minutes later with a small package. Owen could not make up his mind whether to ask to check it, or just hand over the money. He opted for the latter and reached for his wallet.
“There you go,” he said, counting out the notes.
Taking the notes, the man relinquished the package and closed the door. Owen stuffed the package in his knapsack and rode off, in the general direction of the city centre, in search of the train station. He bought a ticket, wheeled the bike onto the platform, where another man stood waiting with his bicycle, and watched for the train.
Back in Amsterdam, he rode out to a park, leant the bicycle against a tree and sat down at the foot of the trunk. His gear was in his knapsack, so he made up a solution and, having glanced around to see if anyone was nearby, injected himself through his jeans, into his leg. As the effects intensified, he watched a man walk across the park at about a hundred paces, followed by a large, lolloping dog. A gut-wrenching ache ambushed his rush, as he recognised how much he still missed Kochai. Closing his eyes, he rested until he felt able to cycle back to the bike stands.
Finding a local bar-restaurant he scoured the menu and went through the door.
“Is it too early for meatballs and beer?” he asked, in Dutch.
“Please, sit down. We can always cook meatballs.”
The waitress indicated where Owen should sit. The meatballs were prepared quickly. All they had to do was take them from the freezer and deep-fry them. He ate them with mustard. The snack gave him a burst of energy and removed any remaining effects from his recent fix. He did not want to arouse Floyd or Sally’s suspicions. It was probably past whatever time they did churchy things, so Owen walked to the houseboat.
“Greetings, Owen,” smiled Sally. “Will you have some soup and cake?”
“I just ate meatballs, but I wouldn’t say ‘no’ to your cake.”
“Hi, Owen,” Floyd greeted him, coming through a doorway near the front of the houseboat.
“Are you well?”
“Yes, thank you,” replied Sally.
“I have some amazing news for you, Owen,” added Floyd, beaming from ear to ear, “but first, tell me about your new job. How’s it gone?”
“Great thanks. I did the trial on Wednesday, and they took me on. I worked Thursday, Friday and Saturday, and in the future, I’ll work Thursday and Friday and alternate between Saturdays and Sundays. Average wage, but I get to keep the tips, and I made just over one hundred guilders. Which reminds me, is there somewhere I can make a contribution for all the soup and cake?”
“Absolutely not. Just try and stay safe and healthy.”
Owen did not argue.
“Now then. I was speaking to a friend, who lives on a houseboat, moored on one of the canals over that way, somewhere,” explained Floyd pointing. “That friend is moving to America, for a year, at some point in the next month, and they asked if you might look after the boat for them. No rent. Just pay for the electricity and Calor gas. No wild parties, and no smoking on board.”
“That is unbelievable!”
“I thought you’d like that.”
“Like it? I love it. When do they go to America?”
“Well, how about I take you to meet them this afternoon? There’s half a chance you can lodge with them until they go.”
“This afternoon it is, then. Thanks.”
“I need to pop out for an hour, but then, we can go. I was wondering if you could do me a favour, while you’re waiting, assuming you weren’t going off anywhere else, in the meantime.”
“Name it.”
“We’ve just had a delivery of leaflets. It would be helpful if you could count them into bundles of twenty and put an elastic band round each bundle.”
“No problem. Where’s the box?”
“I’ll fetch it back out from the other room.”
He disappeared back through the door he had just come from and returned with a large, heavy cardboard box.
“There’s two thousand of them. Do what you can. It will be much appreciated.”
“Will do.”
Owen pulled the tape from the box and opened it to find piles of threefold flyers advertising the houseboat mission. He started reading one of them.
“Who are the flyers for? I mean, where do they get put?”
“Mostly churches, public agencies, any places where you find information leaflets, hostels, hotels, doctors’ surgeries. You name it,” replied Sally, as Floyd left the houseboat. “Anywhere there are people or people who know people who might need a place to chill and talk things over.”
“Shall I take some to ‘The Coffee Room’?”
“Please. Take a bundle.”
Owen nodded and started counting. He started out by counting out a bundle of twenty and putting a rubber band on. This did not feel like the most efficient method, so he started to count out the bundles and lay them criss-cross on the table. When he had ten or so bundles, he put the rubber bands on, and counted out some more. Five minutes before Floyd returned, Owen put the last rubber band on and piled all the bundles back in the box. They took up more space, now, and he was unable to close the box, which he left open and sitting on the table, retaining one bundle which was on the table in front of him. Floyd walked through the door.
“My, my! You have been speedy!”
“I simply got into a method and went at it like a machine.”
“Well, thank you.”
“My pleasure. Sally says I can take these to work, with me.”
“Thank you. Are you ready?”
“May I use the bathroom?”
“Of course.”
Floyd waited while Owen used the bathroom, counting out five bundles.
“I can drop these off on the way,” he remarked when Owen came out.
They set off, walking along several streets and crossing several bridges. Floyd put some of the bundles through letterboxes and the remaining two he took into cafés they passed by. Eventually, when Owen had lost his bearings, somewhat, they arrived at a beautiful houseboat. Floyd led them on board and knocked at the door, which was opened by a woman in her sixties.
