Nomads on the Amstel
51. Will and Ruud leave it behind
If Schiphol were a living entity, that day was one where you could almost put your finger on its racing pulse. It had been a summer where holidays in Scandinavia and the Canadian Rockies had enjoyed a surge in popularity, as people sought solace in cooler climes rather than the normal Mediterranean hot spots. The Netherlands had been hot enough in more ways than one and record numbers saw the need to get out and break away from the intensity, even if only for a short while. The onset of autumn and the cooler temperatures had done nothing to lessen that desire and that afternoon saw the terminals heaving with people. Stimulated by a particularly high irritation factor, they squabbled in the lines at the cafes and gift shops; tripped over each other’s baggage and lost patience with each other’s mewling children. It was not a good day for people with a short fuse but a very good day for Schiphol’s colony of sparrows which thrived here and died out everywhere else. The food supply was endless as they swooped and scavenged for the discarded junk food; skilfully dodging the flailing arms of toddlers and adults bent on tearing their wings off.
Ruud stood by a table outside one of the snack bars and closed his eyes while he waited for Wil to return. He’d claimed the spot after a battle with a large woman from Gelderland, who’d abandoned it to reclaim a screaming toddler who’d rushed off into one of the shops. Arms akimbo she’d confronted him on her return.
“We were standing there sir,”
“But you’re not now, madam!”
After several minutes snapping at each other like two hissing cats, Ruud won out but he was exhausted from the effort. He’d long ago given up the idea of deference to women though it went against his upbringing but there was nothing to be gained from such politeness anymore. If you got a grudging, under-the-breath thank you for giving up your seat on the tram these days, you were lucky; good manners were mostly taken as a sign of weakness.
Eyes closed, he let the wave of noise wash over him. Schiphol’s famous sound absorption system normally worked well but the sheer weight of numbers meant that what was normally a comfortable background hum was now a cacophony in the cathedral.
“Oh nice! Very nice! I nearly kill myself getting you something to eat and all you can do is close your eyes and ignore it all. Well, here’s your baguette and here’s your cola; I hope they choke you!”
Ruud could see that this was no time to come up with bitchy retorts. Wil’s bright red face and bulging eyes told their own story.
“Sorry. I just needed to switch off for a minute. It’s worse than Queen’s Day on the Warmoestraat in here isn’t it! I can’t wait to get on the plane.”
“Well, you’ll have to wait a bit longer. The Alicante flight’s delayed; only an hour and a half though; at the moment! Meanwhile we can enjoy a little more of Schiphol’s renowned hospitable atmosphere amongst our fellow travellers! I swear, I’ll choke the next brat I see running amok and no judge in the land will convict me!”
“Well, at least I found us a table. Put the food down Wil, before you drop it. Come, stand by me and relax.”
In an effort to make an effort, he put his arm round his partner’s shoulders and gently squeezed.
“Just think; in two weeks we’ll be sipping Margueritas on the balcony on a sultry Spanish evening and all this will be a fading nightmare. This may just be the best thing we’ve ever done Wil. We may have saved ourselves in the nick of time from ulcers and early heart attacks!”
There was no reply and the two of them sank into that glassy-eyed stupor that accompanies waiting these days. You can become irritated or rile against hapless staff who are under orders to fob you off but the fact is, there’s nothing you or anybody can do to make the waiting less, so you might as well switch off and go with the flow. Their temporary reverie was interrupted however, by a voice so shrill that it sliced through the hubbub like a knife through butter.
“Wilhelmina and Rudy! The sluts from the Stone Age! Fancy meeting you here!”
“Oh no, that’s all we need! Petra!” muttered Wil as he tried to force his face into a welcoming grin but only succeeded in a frozen grimace.
Like some gothic gargoyle come to life, the apparition swept towards them, dragging three oversized Louis Vuitton pieces of hand luggage behind and scattering tourists and cabin crews like confetti in his wake. He was a sight to see; being clothed from head to toe in black; including a long, black, leather coat over thigh-length boots, stretch pants and a Metallica T-shirt. The icing on the cake was a black gypsy bandanna over his head, finished off with black sunglasses hiding heavily plastered black eye make up. This would have been fine for a twenty year old, emaciated Goth with serious depression but Petra was closer to fifty than forty and a strapping hundred and ten kilos to boot. Having worked at Schiphol for twenty years in what he called his civilian drag period, he felt disturbingly at home. There was no way he was not going to make an entrance.
“Dar-lings! What brings you two to sunny Schiphol? Off for a last dabble at the fleshpots of the Canaries, or sexy Sitges, or mucky Mykonos before you topple into your graves?”
“Hello Petra, can’t you screech it a bit louder, I don’t think the whole airport quite heard you!” mumbled Ruud disconsolately. This was one of his least favourite people and someone who for years had taken great pleasure in teasing him mercilessly.
“Oooh; Someone left her tampons at home! Lighten up Rudy; life’s too short; well for you at least! But then again, you always were a grouch; maybe you’ve had a lifelong piles problem; now that can make you tetchy!”
Wil stepped in. He knew the only way to avoid a full-blown cat fight was to humour Petra before he could get into full flow.
“We’re going to Spain, to Alicante; well, just outside actually. We’re going there to live; permanently. This trip is to sort out the last details.”
“What! When’s this going to happen then?”
Petra put his hand on his hip and virtually bounced on one leg on the spot, his mouth pursed in disapproval.
“We move in two weeks time. We’ve bought an apartment and we’re going to retire from the rat race and enjoy ourselves, while we still can. Isn’t it great? I hope you’re pleased for us.”
‘Don’t get carried away and invite him over, don’t, don’t do it,’ Ruud prayed fervently to himself but Wil didn’t get the chance to make that blunder.
“Typical! Typical! More rats deserting the sinking ship; I should have known!”
“What the fuck do you mean Petra? Where did that little outburst come from?”
It was too late; Petra had turned on his heel and swept off.
“Thank God, that was mercifully short and sweet,” Ruud heaved an exaggerated sigh of relief, “Do you want something else to drink? I’ll go this time if you like.”
Wil appeared not to have heard, he was staring at a fast disappearing Petra, still easily visible among the masses.
“I’m not letting it go at that! Who does she think she is, making a statement like that and then pissing off?”
“Oh no…Wil, please…no!” but it was too late; an irate Wil had set off in pursuit and a disconsolate Ruud had little choice but to follow.
They caught up with Petra at the door of the KLM VIP lounge.
“You can’t come in here,” he snapped, “Read…V…I…P lounge. No entry for the hoi-polloi!”
His years as a KLM employee still allowed him some privileges and he regularly made use of his passes, much to the embarrassment of all concerned.
“What is all this Petra? I don’t understand; why are you so angry? What have we done?”
Wil’s tone was a good deal more conciliatory than Ruud would have wished but he was curious to hear the answer all the same.
“It’s not what you’ve done; it’s what you’re going to do! How could you?”
Two German businessmen tried to squeeze past Petra and gain access to the lounge but his imposing bulk posed a very effective barrier; they stood back puzzled as to what to do next.
“What are you talking about? What do you mean, ‘how could we’?”
“You two are leaving the country just when your people need you most, that’s what! I think it’s the height of cowardice but then again, it doesn’t surprise me from you two.”
The arms were firmly folded across the ample chest and the barrier became the Berlin Wall.
“Entschuldigung bitte. May we get past?”
With a dramatically impatient sigh, Petra moved just enough so that the men in suits could just squeeze past. The look on their faces suggested close contact with a rutting bull elephant and the need for a good shower.
Ruud decided to make a stand.
“Now look here you dizzy queen; what we do is none of your damn business! I don’t know what you’re getting at but we’re not running away from anything and anyway, since when did you become so public-spirited? Are you playing Joan of Arc in your latest show or something?”
Petra gave him a look of pure disgust but didn’t deem the insult worth replying to. Instead he pulled himself up to his considerable height and adopted a stance which radiated moral superiority.
“Some of us…feel that the cause is worth staying for; that being gay in this country should mean something and should carry some respect. Some of us refuse to be driven like sheep into a pen and told to bleat amongst ourselves and some of us are not going to be intimidated into running away! That’s what I mean but if you can’t take the heat darlings, then get the fuck out of the kitchen! Piss off to your cosy life amongst the hibiscus and don’t give us a second thought; we’ll be just fine without you!”
Wil rose to the challenge but for once, very quietly.
“Are you finished? Good, then you can listen to me for a minute. You have no idea what we’ve gone through and you have no idea what we’ve done. You’ve not got a clue whether we’ve made sacrifices, or fought battles, or lost loved ones but you think you can stand there and lecture us on what’s morally right or wrong. Well think again pal because I’m not going to be told what I’m supposed to do by anybody any more, least of all an overweight, over the hill, drag queen whose best days never were! Now are you going to invite us into this sanctuary of yours and buy us a stiff drink, or do we leave it at this?”
Both Ruud and Petra were momentarily silent but after a few seconds thought the ex KLM advertising controller’s face broke into an enormous toothy grin.
“Of course, how rude of me, if you’ve got the time come on in; drinkies are on me. Let’s have a bit of a chat.”
It was lucky that the flight to Alicante was delayed a further half hour because it took all that time for them to rid themselves of the angst and stress of the past months through civilised discussion. The barmen in the VIP lounge were used to Petra’s visits but the rest of the waiting passengers looked on bemused as the three gay men, no longer prepared to be pushed to the margins, sat in the centre of the room and with raised voices as well as whispers, laughed and cried their way through their different experiences of the last few months. It was cathartic for them all and created new mutual respect.
“It’s ironic isn’t it?” Ruud noted, “That something like this can make us appreciate other people like never before. I never had time for you Petra and the feeling was entirely mutual I know but I have to say now, I never knew you. I can’t pretend to know you now either but I respect you and the stand you’re taking. You’re very brave and I couldn’t do it but one thing puzzles me. If you’re so keen on everybody staying in the country to fight this ridiculous government, what may I ask are you doing here today? You’re clearly outward bound and not incoming.”
Petra leaned forward and glanced around to make sure nobody could eavesdrop before whispering;
“I’m not supposed to tell but hell, you’re leaving the country too and I’ll be back in a couple of days. I’m on a secret mission!”
Again, he lowered the sunglasses and peered anxiously from side to side at their neighbours. Wil just managed to suppress the desire to giggle.
“There you go again Wilhelmina! You can’t resist turning everything into a joke can you? I thought we’d come to respect each other over the last hour!”
Petra flounced back on his seat and the arms were firmly folded once more.
“Sorry Petra, I’m sorry! It just sounds so…James Bond in a wig you know? Surely you can see the funny side of it too. Please go on, I promise not to be childish”
“Well, alright then but this is definitely no laughing matter I can tell you.”
He leaned forward conspiratorially once more.
“I’m going to Berlin to meet with some A-gays there. We’ve heard that they’re prepared to help us in Germany and when I say help, I mean help, to the tune of tens of thousands of euros. God knows we could do with the money. Jantje Theunissen has done her best, god bless her but her promised funds have turned out to be very small potatoes indeed, so we need an influx of cash from elsewhere. The Deutsches ladies who lunch are going to bail us out but I have to convince them that it’ll be money well spent and before you pass comment, I have been doing that all my working life you know!”
Ruud raised his eyebrows in astonishment.
“I’ve absolutely no doubt you have and I’m sure if arms need to be twisted, you’re the one to do it but forgive me for asking; what’s the money for? I thought all the actions had been called off after those deaths.”
“There’s more than one way to skin a cat my friend. If this bunch of tiny dicks and tight arses who run our country think they’ve won this battle they’ve got another think coming! They may have won the first few encounters but the war’s just beginning. First we’ve got to get everybody out of jail, pay fines and legal costs and get everything back on the level again; then we start being more subtle; adverts in papers, slots on TV, appearances on chat shows, things like that. Of course I’m not a candidate for any of those things; I’m far too forthright and have been known to lose my temper with idiots…”
‘You’re not the acceptable face of the new campaign you mean,’ thought Ruud ruefully, ‘they are going to be more subtle.’
“…so I’m being used where my talents can be best employed and that’s persuading people to part with their hard earned cash. There’s a problem though; they know what we’re doing!”
“Who are they? It all sounds very dramatic to me.”
Wil also thought that there was nothing like a bunch of queens for whipping up a drama.
Petra leaned forward for the third time.
“Them…you know…the Internal Affairs people. We think they’ve got a spy in the camp but we can’t find him, or her! I personally suspect a number of bull dykes. Anyway, we’re all being watched and our phones may be tapped and our internet activities monitored. I hope they get sore dicks jerking off to my porn collection! Why do you think they sent me to Berlin? What’s more innocent than a larger than life drag queen going to visit Sally Bowles for a few days! Eh! Clever or what!”
Finally ensconced in their seats and as the wings of the plane lifted off the ground, Wil turned to Ruud,
“Well, it’s been a hell of a day so far and it’s by no means over but at least we’re on our way.”
Ruud had just sat back and closed his eyes. Without bothering to open them he asked Wil the important question.
“Are we doing the right thing? Leaving Amsterdam I mean; has Petra got a point? Haven’t we always fought for gay rights in our own way? Why are we leaving just when it’s getting tough again?”
Wil undid his seat belt in a hurry and twisted his body so that he was practically in front of his lover and took him by the shoulders. A woman in the seat behind tutted just a little too loudly and he turned on her savagely.
“What are you tutting at? Don’t you watch the news? If you think you’ve seen everything on the Dam square, then my friend and I can give you a show that’ll make that look like a Punch and Judy show, okay?”
The woman looked at her husband, who turned away in embarrassment and Wil’s attention returned to Ruud.
“Now you listen to me Ruud. We’re not spring chickens any more and forgive me but you’ve aged twenty years in the last twelve months. I’m sure I don’t look the picture of health either but you look really ill. If moving to Spain means saving our lives then we’re doing the right thing. Let the young things do the fighting, they’ve got the energy for it. I know Petra’s not exactly in the first flush of youth but he’s doing what he thinks is important for his own conscience. We’ve all given and taken in our lives, maybe he thinks it’s time he gave something back and hats off to him but it’s not for us any more. Anyway, we’re far too conservative and certainly not extreme enough to be gay activists in this day and age. It’s not our battle any more; we’ve done our bit. We’re tired and we need a rest, or we’re not going to survive long enough to see how it all turns out.”
To the left came the sound of quiet clapping. They turned to see two other gay men, even older than themselves nodding and giving the thumbs up sign.
“You go for it friends. We’ve been there, done that and bought the T-shirt too. We deserve a break. God… give us a break!”
52. The winds of change
(Extract from :)
Party Political Broadcast on behalf of the CUP (Christian Unionist Party)
December 20th
The Prime Minister
…The last few months have been difficult times for our country and our people. Under pressure from an apparent deterioration of the social order, where petty crime and antisocial behaviour have visibly and in some cases alarmingly increased, successive governments have struggled to maintain the norms and values of our traditional social fabric. For some years now, we have all debated over how we can return to the moral fortitude and those social obligations which require us to take responsibility for our own actions. Debating however, is what we Dutch are especially good at; taking action to implement the outcomes has always been less easy, as we have been expected to take the varying views of our population into consideration. As a result, small pressure groups have always been able to bring a disproportionately large influence to bear. We have grown accustomed to the premise that compromise is the only way to effect change. The problem is that compromise by definition, means a watered-down solution which satisfies neither side completely. Serious problems are seldom tackled at their roots and policies become little more than cosmetic plasters over deeper wounds.
This government has taken some difficult decisions over the last few months; decisions which have taken the views of the vast majority into consideration. This has meant that certain smaller groups and elements of society have been forced to accede to democratic choice. That is not always ideal in a free society but if major social problems are to be solved then the opinions of society as a whole must outweigh those of minority interests.
From the recent unnecessary tragedies that this land has experienced, it has become clear that a strong government is required to take a leading role. We were elected to carry out the wishes of a democratic majority and have been forced by events to re-examine our attitudes to social behaviour and take certain actions to make our towns and cities safer places for social activity.
As a result, we have seen protests and civil disorder on the streets. These actions are not only anti-social, they are undemocratic and in many cases unlawful. I am here to tell you now, that further similar actions will no longer be tolerated and will be dealt with by the full weight of the law. Our people deserve to be able to walk the streets safely, without fear of being molested by extremists of whatever creed, persuasion and colour. Our children deserve to be able to grow up and develop as citizens without the constant barrage of sexual innuendo and often extremist minority behaviour. Nobody loses the right to choose and nobody loses the right to sexual freedom but equally, nobody has the right to bring undue influence to bear on others, especially the young and the more vulnerable sections of society. Public displays of sexual preference are, in the eyes of the majority of people unnecessary, often corrupting and frequently offensive.
This government believes in implementing the wishes of the electorate and as such will not shy away from taking such measures as are necessary to do just that. As a result, the following new rules will be implemented as of January 31st next year. They are designed to complement the regulations that are already in place and are part of an extensive package which will make our streets, cafés, bars and clubs safer and more comfortable places for all to enjoy.
It is our opinion that no café, bar or restaurant should be a place where sexual activity takes place. There will be no more dark rooms. Social sexual activity will be confined to private membership clubs which must now all reapply for licences in order for their premises to be used in such a way. The safety parameters for granting such licences will be reviewed and rigorously enforced. Public safety is paramount, therefore club owners can expect to be frequently inspected and should they fall short of the new safety regulations, will face heavy fines or be required to close immediately until their licences are reassessed. These regulations will also apply to premises in Red Light Districts and a special committee will be set up to evaluate the effect of window prostitution as a whole. If it should be found that such an area has a negative effect via criminality and public indecency on the atmosphere of our cities, then the function of that area will be re-evaluated. Further, all new businesses will have to comply with strict public safety and hygiene rules before they open, though at the same time, incentives will be offered so that new projects can more easily replace those which fall short of requirements.
There will be a policy of zero tolerance regarding drug use in public; including the use of, sale of, or attempted sale of all hard drugs. All too often pushers and dealers accost people in the street, especially the young and tourists, creating an atmosphere of intimidation and insecurity as well as damaging our international reputation.
People also have the right to walk the streets, socialise and travel on buses or trains without being pestered by tramps, beggars and addicts. This sort of behaviour will no longer be tolerated and the penalties will be severe.
It seems logical that for these new rules to be effective, they must be enforceable. As a result, the government will immediately implement new policies to increase police recruitment. The police must be visible on the streets if they are to be an effective deterrent thus extra finance will be made available to divert and create whatever forces are necessary. Should there be a need for enforcement as a result of violent demonstrations or riots, the army will be given powers to assist the police however necessary. There will be a new civil branch of the police, whose task it is to carry out the more mundane and time consuming tasks, including administration which at present hamper effective law enforcement. They will be given the powers of arrest and detention. Special twenty four hour courts will be set up initially in the four major cities to dispense justice when and where needed. The whole judiciary system as regards public order offences will be speeded up and funds will be available to facilitate personnel needs in these areas.
It is sincerely hoped that most of these extra measures will be of a short term nature. Once it is clear that our streets at night have been returned to the people and that social facilities are safe for everyone to enjoy, then it is foreseen that the need for extra enforcement will by definition lessen.
This government believes that every citizen has a responsibility to care not only for himself and his family but also for society as a whole. Antisocial behaviour must not be tolerated and people will be encouraged to report incidents ranging from the throwing away of litter to irresponsible driving to the authorities. Special phone lines will be open for members of the public to report transgressions safely and anonymously.
These measures may seem harsh to some people but the events of the last few months have shown us that the long recognised faults and weaknesses in our society are leading to dangerous, sometimes fatal situations. People have rightly had enough of feeling nervous or under threat in public. This country has a justified reputation for decency and family values being at the heart of our society. The last few years however, have shown that asocial elements have been whittling away at that fabric of decency and tolerance that is our trademark in the world. History would deem this government irresponsible if it shirked from its duty to rectify the situation and thus we have decided that, painful as these measures may be to some, they are long overdue and will be vigorously implemented until the cancers within our society are expunged. Opinion polls show that the vast majority of people stand firmly behind our actions but nevertheless we still ask for support, cooperation and understanding from all citizens, so that our land can return to the decent and safe society it once was.
If Schiphol were a living entity, that day was one where you could almost put your finger on its racing pulse. It had been a summer where holidays in Scandinavia and the Canadian Rockies had enjoyed a surge in popularity, as people sought solace in cooler climes rather than the normal Mediterranean hot spots. The Netherlands had been hot enough in more ways than one and record numbers saw the need to get out and break away from the intensity, even if only for a short while. The onset of autumn and the cooler temperatures had done nothing to lessen that desire and that afternoon saw the terminals heaving with people. Stimulated by a particularly high irritation factor, they squabbled in the lines at the cafes and gift shops; tripped over each other’s baggage and lost patience with each other’s mewling children. It was not a good day for people with a short fuse but a very good day for Schiphol’s colony of sparrows which thrived here and died out everywhere else. The food supply was endless as they swooped and scavenged for the discarded junk food; skilfully dodging the flailing arms of toddlers and adults bent on tearing their wings off.
Ruud stood by a table outside one of the snack bars and closed his eyes while he waited for Wil to return. He’d claimed the spot after a battle with a large woman from Gelderland, who’d abandoned it to reclaim a screaming toddler who’d rushed off into one of the shops. Arms akimbo she’d confronted him on her return.
“We were standing there sir,”
“But you’re not now, madam!”
After several minutes snapping at each other like two hissing cats, Ruud won out but he was exhausted from the effort. He’d long ago given up the idea of deference to women though it went against his upbringing but there was nothing to be gained from such politeness anymore. If you got a grudging, under-the-breath thank you for giving up your seat on the tram these days, you were lucky; good manners were mostly taken as a sign of weakness.
Eyes closed, he let the wave of noise wash over him. Schiphol’s famous sound absorption system normally worked well but the sheer weight of numbers meant that what was normally a comfortable background hum was now a cacophony in the cathedral.
“Oh nice! Very nice! I nearly kill myself getting you something to eat and all you can do is close your eyes and ignore it all. Well, here’s your baguette and here’s your cola; I hope they choke you!”
Ruud could see that this was no time to come up with bitchy retorts. Wil’s bright red face and bulging eyes told their own story.
“Sorry. I just needed to switch off for a minute. It’s worse than Queen’s Day on the Warmoestraat in here isn’t it! I can’t wait to get on the plane.”
“Well, you’ll have to wait a bit longer. The Alicante flight’s delayed; only an hour and a half though; at the moment! Meanwhile we can enjoy a little more of Schiphol’s renowned hospitable atmosphere amongst our fellow travellers! I swear, I’ll choke the next brat I see running amok and no judge in the land will convict me!”
“Well, at least I found us a table. Put the food down Wil, before you drop it. Come, stand by me and relax.”
In an effort to make an effort, he put his arm round his partner’s shoulders and gently squeezed.
“Just think; in two weeks we’ll be sipping Margueritas on the balcony on a sultry Spanish evening and all this will be a fading nightmare. This may just be the best thing we’ve ever done Wil. We may have saved ourselves in the nick of time from ulcers and early heart attacks!”
There was no reply and the two of them sank into that glassy-eyed stupor that accompanies waiting these days. You can become irritated or rile against hapless staff who are under orders to fob you off but the fact is, there’s nothing you or anybody can do to make the waiting less, so you might as well switch off and go with the flow. Their temporary reverie was interrupted however, by a voice so shrill that it sliced through the hubbub like a knife through butter.
“Wilhelmina and Rudy! The sluts from the Stone Age! Fancy meeting you here!”
“Oh no, that’s all we need! Petra!” muttered Wil as he tried to force his face into a welcoming grin but only succeeded in a frozen grimace.
Like some gothic gargoyle come to life, the apparition swept towards them, dragging three oversized Louis Vuitton pieces of hand luggage behind and scattering tourists and cabin crews like confetti in his wake. He was a sight to see; being clothed from head to toe in black; including a long, black, leather coat over thigh-length boots, stretch pants and a Metallica T-shirt. The icing on the cake was a black gypsy bandanna over his head, finished off with black sunglasses hiding heavily plastered black eye make up. This would have been fine for a twenty year old, emaciated Goth with serious depression but Petra was closer to fifty than forty and a strapping hundred and ten kilos to boot. Having worked at Schiphol for twenty years in what he called his civilian drag period, he felt disturbingly at home. There was no way he was not going to make an entrance.
“Dar-lings! What brings you two to sunny Schiphol? Off for a last dabble at the fleshpots of the Canaries, or sexy Sitges, or mucky Mykonos before you topple into your graves?”
“Hello Petra, can’t you screech it a bit louder, I don’t think the whole airport quite heard you!” mumbled Ruud disconsolately. This was one of his least favourite people and someone who for years had taken great pleasure in teasing him mercilessly.
“Oooh; Someone left her tampons at home! Lighten up Rudy; life’s too short; well for you at least! But then again, you always were a grouch; maybe you’ve had a lifelong piles problem; now that can make you tetchy!”
Wil stepped in. He knew the only way to avoid a full-blown cat fight was to humour Petra before he could get into full flow.
“We’re going to Spain, to Alicante; well, just outside actually. We’re going there to live; permanently. This trip is to sort out the last details.”
“What! When’s this going to happen then?”
Petra put his hand on his hip and virtually bounced on one leg on the spot, his mouth pursed in disapproval.
“We move in two weeks time. We’ve bought an apartment and we’re going to retire from the rat race and enjoy ourselves, while we still can. Isn’t it great? I hope you’re pleased for us.”
‘Don’t get carried away and invite him over, don’t, don’t do it,’ Ruud prayed fervently to himself but Wil didn’t get the chance to make that blunder.
“Typical! Typical! More rats deserting the sinking ship; I should have known!”
“What the fuck do you mean Petra? Where did that little outburst come from?”
It was too late; Petra had turned on his heel and swept off.
“Thank God, that was mercifully short and sweet,” Ruud heaved an exaggerated sigh of relief, “Do you want something else to drink? I’ll go this time if you like.”
Wil appeared not to have heard, he was staring at a fast disappearing Petra, still easily visible among the masses.
“I’m not letting it go at that! Who does she think she is, making a statement like that and then pissing off?”
“Oh no…Wil, please…no!” but it was too late; an irate Wil had set off in pursuit and a disconsolate Ruud had little choice but to follow.
They caught up with Petra at the door of the KLM VIP lounge.
“You can’t come in here,” he snapped, “Read…V…I…P lounge. No entry for the hoi-polloi!”
His years as a KLM employee still allowed him some privileges and he regularly made use of his passes, much to the embarrassment of all concerned.
“What is all this Petra? I don’t understand; why are you so angry? What have we done?”
Wil’s tone was a good deal more conciliatory than Ruud would have wished but he was curious to hear the answer all the same.
“It’s not what you’ve done; it’s what you’re going to do! How could you?”
Two German businessmen tried to squeeze past Petra and gain access to the lounge but his imposing bulk posed a very effective barrier; they stood back puzzled as to what to do next.
“What are you talking about? What do you mean, ‘how could we’?”
“You two are leaving the country just when your people need you most, that’s what! I think it’s the height of cowardice but then again, it doesn’t surprise me from you two.”
The arms were firmly folded across the ample chest and the barrier became the Berlin Wall.
“Entschuldigung bitte. May we get past?”
With a dramatically impatient sigh, Petra moved just enough so that the men in suits could just squeeze past. The look on their faces suggested close contact with a rutting bull elephant and the need for a good shower.
Ruud decided to make a stand.
“Now look here you dizzy queen; what we do is none of your damn business! I don’t know what you’re getting at but we’re not running away from anything and anyway, since when did you become so public-spirited? Are you playing Joan of Arc in your latest show or something?”
Petra gave him a look of pure disgust but didn’t deem the insult worth replying to. Instead he pulled himself up to his considerable height and adopted a stance which radiated moral superiority.
“Some of us…feel that the cause is worth staying for; that being gay in this country should mean something and should carry some respect. Some of us refuse to be driven like sheep into a pen and told to bleat amongst ourselves and some of us are not going to be intimidated into running away! That’s what I mean but if you can’t take the heat darlings, then get the fuck out of the kitchen! Piss off to your cosy life amongst the hibiscus and don’t give us a second thought; we’ll be just fine without you!”
Wil rose to the challenge but for once, very quietly.
“Are you finished? Good, then you can listen to me for a minute. You have no idea what we’ve gone through and you have no idea what we’ve done. You’ve not got a clue whether we’ve made sacrifices, or fought battles, or lost loved ones but you think you can stand there and lecture us on what’s morally right or wrong. Well think again pal because I’m not going to be told what I’m supposed to do by anybody any more, least of all an overweight, over the hill, drag queen whose best days never were! Now are you going to invite us into this sanctuary of yours and buy us a stiff drink, or do we leave it at this?”
Both Ruud and Petra were momentarily silent but after a few seconds thought the ex KLM advertising controller’s face broke into an enormous toothy grin.
“Of course, how rude of me, if you’ve got the time come on in; drinkies are on me. Let’s have a bit of a chat.”
It was lucky that the flight to Alicante was delayed a further half hour because it took all that time for them to rid themselves of the angst and stress of the past months through civilised discussion. The barmen in the VIP lounge were used to Petra’s visits but the rest of the waiting passengers looked on bemused as the three gay men, no longer prepared to be pushed to the margins, sat in the centre of the room and with raised voices as well as whispers, laughed and cried their way through their different experiences of the last few months. It was cathartic for them all and created new mutual respect.
“It’s ironic isn’t it?” Ruud noted, “That something like this can make us appreciate other people like never before. I never had time for you Petra and the feeling was entirely mutual I know but I have to say now, I never knew you. I can’t pretend to know you now either but I respect you and the stand you’re taking. You’re very brave and I couldn’t do it but one thing puzzles me. If you’re so keen on everybody staying in the country to fight this ridiculous government, what may I ask are you doing here today? You’re clearly outward bound and not incoming.”
Petra leaned forward and glanced around to make sure nobody could eavesdrop before whispering;
“I’m not supposed to tell but hell, you’re leaving the country too and I’ll be back in a couple of days. I’m on a secret mission!”
Again, he lowered the sunglasses and peered anxiously from side to side at their neighbours. Wil just managed to suppress the desire to giggle.
“There you go again Wilhelmina! You can’t resist turning everything into a joke can you? I thought we’d come to respect each other over the last hour!”
Petra flounced back on his seat and the arms were firmly folded once more.
“Sorry Petra, I’m sorry! It just sounds so…James Bond in a wig you know? Surely you can see the funny side of it too. Please go on, I promise not to be childish”
“Well, alright then but this is definitely no laughing matter I can tell you.”
He leaned forward conspiratorially once more.
“I’m going to Berlin to meet with some A-gays there. We’ve heard that they’re prepared to help us in Germany and when I say help, I mean help, to the tune of tens of thousands of euros. God knows we could do with the money. Jantje Theunissen has done her best, god bless her but her promised funds have turned out to be very small potatoes indeed, so we need an influx of cash from elsewhere. The Deutsches ladies who lunch are going to bail us out but I have to convince them that it’ll be money well spent and before you pass comment, I have been doing that all my working life you know!”
Ruud raised his eyebrows in astonishment.
“I’ve absolutely no doubt you have and I’m sure if arms need to be twisted, you’re the one to do it but forgive me for asking; what’s the money for? I thought all the actions had been called off after those deaths.”
“There’s more than one way to skin a cat my friend. If this bunch of tiny dicks and tight arses who run our country think they’ve won this battle they’ve got another think coming! They may have won the first few encounters but the war’s just beginning. First we’ve got to get everybody out of jail, pay fines and legal costs and get everything back on the level again; then we start being more subtle; adverts in papers, slots on TV, appearances on chat shows, things like that. Of course I’m not a candidate for any of those things; I’m far too forthright and have been known to lose my temper with idiots…”
‘You’re not the acceptable face of the new campaign you mean,’ thought Ruud ruefully, ‘they are going to be more subtle.’
“…so I’m being used where my talents can be best employed and that’s persuading people to part with their hard earned cash. There’s a problem though; they know what we’re doing!”
“Who are they? It all sounds very dramatic to me.”
Wil also thought that there was nothing like a bunch of queens for whipping up a drama.
Petra leaned forward for the third time.
“Them…you know…the Internal Affairs people. We think they’ve got a spy in the camp but we can’t find him, or her! I personally suspect a number of bull dykes. Anyway, we’re all being watched and our phones may be tapped and our internet activities monitored. I hope they get sore dicks jerking off to my porn collection! Why do you think they sent me to Berlin? What’s more innocent than a larger than life drag queen going to visit Sally Bowles for a few days! Eh! Clever or what!”
Finally ensconced in their seats and as the wings of the plane lifted off the ground, Wil turned to Ruud,
“Well, it’s been a hell of a day so far and it’s by no means over but at least we’re on our way.”
Ruud had just sat back and closed his eyes. Without bothering to open them he asked Wil the important question.
“Are we doing the right thing? Leaving Amsterdam I mean; has Petra got a point? Haven’t we always fought for gay rights in our own way? Why are we leaving just when it’s getting tough again?”
Wil undid his seat belt in a hurry and twisted his body so that he was practically in front of his lover and took him by the shoulders. A woman in the seat behind tutted just a little too loudly and he turned on her savagely.
“What are you tutting at? Don’t you watch the news? If you think you’ve seen everything on the Dam square, then my friend and I can give you a show that’ll make that look like a Punch and Judy show, okay?”
The woman looked at her husband, who turned away in embarrassment and Wil’s attention returned to Ruud.
“Now you listen to me Ruud. We’re not spring chickens any more and forgive me but you’ve aged twenty years in the last twelve months. I’m sure I don’t look the picture of health either but you look really ill. If moving to Spain means saving our lives then we’re doing the right thing. Let the young things do the fighting, they’ve got the energy for it. I know Petra’s not exactly in the first flush of youth but he’s doing what he thinks is important for his own conscience. We’ve all given and taken in our lives, maybe he thinks it’s time he gave something back and hats off to him but it’s not for us any more. Anyway, we’re far too conservative and certainly not extreme enough to be gay activists in this day and age. It’s not our battle any more; we’ve done our bit. We’re tired and we need a rest, or we’re not going to survive long enough to see how it all turns out.”
To the left came the sound of quiet clapping. They turned to see two other gay men, even older than themselves nodding and giving the thumbs up sign.
“You go for it friends. We’ve been there, done that and bought the T-shirt too. We deserve a break. God… give us a break!”
52. The winds of change
(Extract from :)
Party Political Broadcast on behalf of the CUP (Christian Unionist Party)
December 20th
The Prime Minister
…The last few months have been difficult times for our country and our people. Under pressure from an apparent deterioration of the social order, where petty crime and antisocial behaviour have visibly and in some cases alarmingly increased, successive governments have struggled to maintain the norms and values of our traditional social fabric. For some years now, we have all debated over how we can return to the moral fortitude and those social obligations which require us to take responsibility for our own actions. Debating however, is what we Dutch are especially good at; taking action to implement the outcomes has always been less easy, as we have been expected to take the varying views of our population into consideration. As a result, small pressure groups have always been able to bring a disproportionately large influence to bear. We have grown accustomed to the premise that compromise is the only way to effect change. The problem is that compromise by definition, means a watered-down solution which satisfies neither side completely. Serious problems are seldom tackled at their roots and policies become little more than cosmetic plasters over deeper wounds.
This government has taken some difficult decisions over the last few months; decisions which have taken the views of the vast majority into consideration. This has meant that certain smaller groups and elements of society have been forced to accede to democratic choice. That is not always ideal in a free society but if major social problems are to be solved then the opinions of society as a whole must outweigh those of minority interests.
From the recent unnecessary tragedies that this land has experienced, it has become clear that a strong government is required to take a leading role. We were elected to carry out the wishes of a democratic majority and have been forced by events to re-examine our attitudes to social behaviour and take certain actions to make our towns and cities safer places for social activity.
As a result, we have seen protests and civil disorder on the streets. These actions are not only anti-social, they are undemocratic and in many cases unlawful. I am here to tell you now, that further similar actions will no longer be tolerated and will be dealt with by the full weight of the law. Our people deserve to be able to walk the streets safely, without fear of being molested by extremists of whatever creed, persuasion and colour. Our children deserve to be able to grow up and develop as citizens without the constant barrage of sexual innuendo and often extremist minority behaviour. Nobody loses the right to choose and nobody loses the right to sexual freedom but equally, nobody has the right to bring undue influence to bear on others, especially the young and the more vulnerable sections of society. Public displays of sexual preference are, in the eyes of the majority of people unnecessary, often corrupting and frequently offensive.
This government believes in implementing the wishes of the electorate and as such will not shy away from taking such measures as are necessary to do just that. As a result, the following new rules will be implemented as of January 31st next year. They are designed to complement the regulations that are already in place and are part of an extensive package which will make our streets, cafés, bars and clubs safer and more comfortable places for all to enjoy.
It is our opinion that no café, bar or restaurant should be a place where sexual activity takes place. There will be no more dark rooms. Social sexual activity will be confined to private membership clubs which must now all reapply for licences in order for their premises to be used in such a way. The safety parameters for granting such licences will be reviewed and rigorously enforced. Public safety is paramount, therefore club owners can expect to be frequently inspected and should they fall short of the new safety regulations, will face heavy fines or be required to close immediately until their licences are reassessed. These regulations will also apply to premises in Red Light Districts and a special committee will be set up to evaluate the effect of window prostitution as a whole. If it should be found that such an area has a negative effect via criminality and public indecency on the atmosphere of our cities, then the function of that area will be re-evaluated. Further, all new businesses will have to comply with strict public safety and hygiene rules before they open, though at the same time, incentives will be offered so that new projects can more easily replace those which fall short of requirements.
There will be a policy of zero tolerance regarding drug use in public; including the use of, sale of, or attempted sale of all hard drugs. All too often pushers and dealers accost people in the street, especially the young and tourists, creating an atmosphere of intimidation and insecurity as well as damaging our international reputation.
People also have the right to walk the streets, socialise and travel on buses or trains without being pestered by tramps, beggars and addicts. This sort of behaviour will no longer be tolerated and the penalties will be severe.
It seems logical that for these new rules to be effective, they must be enforceable. As a result, the government will immediately implement new policies to increase police recruitment. The police must be visible on the streets if they are to be an effective deterrent thus extra finance will be made available to divert and create whatever forces are necessary. Should there be a need for enforcement as a result of violent demonstrations or riots, the army will be given powers to assist the police however necessary. There will be a new civil branch of the police, whose task it is to carry out the more mundane and time consuming tasks, including administration which at present hamper effective law enforcement. They will be given the powers of arrest and detention. Special twenty four hour courts will be set up initially in the four major cities to dispense justice when and where needed. The whole judiciary system as regards public order offences will be speeded up and funds will be available to facilitate personnel needs in these areas.
It is sincerely hoped that most of these extra measures will be of a short term nature. Once it is clear that our streets at night have been returned to the people and that social facilities are safe for everyone to enjoy, then it is foreseen that the need for extra enforcement will by definition lessen.
This government believes that every citizen has a responsibility to care not only for himself and his family but also for society as a whole. Antisocial behaviour must not be tolerated and people will be encouraged to report incidents ranging from the throwing away of litter to irresponsible driving to the authorities. Special phone lines will be open for members of the public to report transgressions safely and anonymously.
These measures may seem harsh to some people but the events of the last few months have shown us that the long recognised faults and weaknesses in our society are leading to dangerous, sometimes fatal situations. People have rightly had enough of feeling nervous or under threat in public. This country has a justified reputation for decency and family values being at the heart of our society. The last few years however, have shown that asocial elements have been whittling away at that fabric of decency and tolerance that is our trademark in the world. History would deem this government irresponsible if it shirked from its duty to rectify the situation and thus we have decided that, painful as these measures may be to some, they are long overdue and will be vigorously implemented until the cancers within our society are expunged. Opinion polls show that the vast majority of people stand firmly behind our actions but nevertheless we still ask for support, cooperation and understanding from all citizens, so that our land can return to the decent and safe society it once was.
53. Unlucky for some
Friday, January 13th
For his fourth and hopefully decisive appearance in court, Arjan decided to follow his lawyers’ advice and dress soberly. Everything was toned down so that he appeared less the successful businessman in Armani and more the repentant and outwardly decent citizen. Whether it would have any influence at all he didn’t know but he sincerely doubted it. It was clear that he was going to be severely dealt with. Everything was against him. The indecent haste whereby everything had been rushed through at the instigation of faceless bureaucrats from the Office of Public Prosecutions had alarmed everyone, not least his lawyers, who displayed less enthusiasm for his defence by the day. The instigation of the tough, new laws designed to stamp out precisely the sort of things Arjan was accused of, meant that he was to be high-profile-case number one. If the government was to mean what it said, then Arjan needed to be hit with everything they’d got. His background wasn’t exactly a help either. There’s nothing people like more than to see a successful man brought down. As owner of a gay boys’ club which everyone understood to be a bordello; as well as being the owner of The Anvil, he could hardly count on public sympathy. Making enemies all his life hadn’t helped either. There was practically no one who could be found to come forward as a character witness on his behalf and God knows, the lawyers had scraped every seedy barrel they could find in the search.
It was one of those particularly nasty January days where the mist froze like a shroud over the city and the cold seeped into everyone’s bones. People with rheumatism groaned on waking up; they knew the day would be painful. Arjan knew it too and for once his unshakeable belief in his own Houdini abilities was missing. All he could see ahead of him was a number of years in custody, surrounded either by fellow prisoners who couldn’t see past the fact that he was gay and associated him with every dumb action the activists had been taking; or by guards whose singular lack of sympathy meant he was treated like a parasite; sneered at and scorned at every opportunity. He had already been confronted by two North Africans as he emerged from the showers after a session in the prison gym. At first, they’d used their heavily accented Dutch to heap insults upon him, threatening to castrate him with kitchen knives and rid the world of a ‘filthy faggot’ but then the threats quickly became sexually tinged, as they began to demand favours and services they felt sure he could provide. The suggestion was that he could gain protection from the prison Muslim community; though he knew they weren’t the only group he had to fear. Thanks to the furore over the fire and its consequences, plus the anti-gay feelings being propagated by the press, his prison status wasn’t much higher than that of the child molesters and rapists. He had to admit he was frightened. Although physically no coward, he felt helpless in the face of such aggression. There was a sinking realisation that he would have to make a stand here and suffer the consequences, or become an easy target and he’d seen too many American films to find that an attractive proposition. The situation was only temporarily relieved by the appearance of a guard giving him the opportunity to get away but it was only a matter of time before he would be faced with a similar situation and the ultimate survivor was as close to despair as he’d ever been.
His two lawyers came for a pre-appearance meeting but there was little more to be said. His case, that he could not be held directly culpable for the fatalities because the cause of the fire had been found to be arson, sounded weak in the face of a public outcry for a scapegoat. He was faced with multiple charges of manslaughter and negligence and the fact that he’d fled the country didn’t exactly help. The trial was being given maximum publicity and the eyes of the country were fixed on his anticipated conviction and downfall. The government’s very credibility depended on a ruthless execution of the law; there was no way he could win.
As it turned out, the first day was pretty much an anticlimax. Depositions were read and peripheral evidence was heard, little of it relating directly to Arjan and he spent most of the day sitting back and chewing his nails, which had long since lost their manicured splendour. He heard lawyers for the prosecution outlining procedures in that monotonic manner of theirs and his own representatives responding with a similar lack of genuine interest. He watched the press posse as they one by one, gradually lost interest and left the room and examined every court official’s face for signs of personality but it was one of those days devoted to administration; necessary but undeniably boring. Nothing more would happen until the Monday.
Later, after he’d returned exhausted to his cell, it took a while for his body to readjust to what were now familiar surroundings. The courtroom was so sterile and anonymous. Everything was new and tasteful and the furniture was fashionably natural wood but the lighting was cold and glaring; everyone looked sickly pale and he wasn’t the only one who came away with sore eyes and a tension headache. Even the portrait of the queen above the bench was verging on the abstract. He’d studied every line but its deliberate post modernist bleakness meant that its depths could be explored in a matter of minutes. Only one judge had bothered to turn up though he’d been told that he would be tried by three. Apparently, the first day was designed to be a non-event. His lawyer had told him that that was in his favour; it took some of the sting out of the media hype but it just succeeded in depressing him further. Dutch trials were often drawn-out affairs, with long periods of inaction as various parties gathered this or that evidence and the finer points of the law were discussed to their minutiae. How many days, weeks or months would he have to wait before they finally found him guilty, locked him up and threw away the key? Despite feeling somewhat of a martyr; after all he wasn’t the first defendant in history to be sacrificed in the name of political expediency; those few hours back in his cell were amongst the most difficult of his life.
Sitting in the chair by the desk, he stared unfeelingly up at the sky. Overwhelmingly grey and featureless it offered no consolation whatsoever, merely confirming his imprisonment. He couldn’t face watching television or listening to the radio; wasn’t interested in picking up a book or a magazine and had none of his usual cravings for chocolate, although a half eaten bar lay by his bed. He felt completely blank and uninspired and as a result, his thoughts could only head in one direction.
Looking around him, he examined the room for a means to an end. Nothing sprang to mind but the feeling grew stronger and stronger. If he could, he’d finish it now. What was the point of living without the high points; without the money, the power and the thrill of sex? He felt destined to spend years in one sterile environment or another. His cell was sterile; he hadn’t had any inclination to spice it up the way other prisoners did, with photos or posters or pages from sex magazines, so it remained as it was when he’d moved in; a room in which to exist and nothing more. This prison or any other for that matter was nothing more than an institution for keeping large numbers of men out of the public eye for indeterminate periods of time. The work he’d been offered seemed futile and the company he would be forced to keep was both psychologically and intellectually disturbed. Who would he make a friend? Nobody! In ‘normal’ life he was a loner and in here he would be even more so but without the freedom to choose to be so. It all felt so pointless and the claustrophobia began to eat away at his resolve and any remaining fragments of optimism that he might somehow wake up to find it had all been a dreadful mistake. Arjan was first and foremost a battler, a scrapper and a survivor but now he felt beaten and reduced. There was no point in carrying on; what for? His father had outwitted him at every turn and he didn’t suppose that an early release would mean he could just snap back into his old life. That too would be a battle and the way he felt at the moment, he would soon be back behind bars for first degree murder! Not that he cared what the rest of the world did or thought but looking round his cell for a means of committing suicide seemed absolutely logical and better for everyone, not least himself. The problem was, he was still thinking lucidly, still calculating, therefore he could see that whatever method he chose had to be one that would work. He wasn’t so confused and disturbed that the most important thing was the act itself, irrespective of the outcome. He reasoned that most suicides were done without much thought or planning and as a result were mostly messy and humiliating failures. He didn’t see himself as psychologically so far gone that suicide was an irresistible impulse and that any means would do. He saw it as a logical step, having weighed up all the pros and cons in advance. It was by far the better of two evils but if it was to happen then he wanted to make sure that it was clean, painless and above all, successful. Other people didn’t come into the equation. There was nobody to mourn his passing but he reasoned that if he was to go down in history, it would be with a modicum of sympathy, as the perceived victim of political chicanery; guilty as charged maybe but not deserving of such an end.
It all seemed so fitting somehow though if he had thought there was the slightest chance of coming out of this a free man, it wouldn’t have entered his head but how would he do it and if a method were found, could he do it? There was nothing in the cell that would deliver him from this mortal coil quickly and painlessly. Safety razors were hardly the stuff of a suicidal man’s must-have list; scissors weren’t allowed, or knives for that matter and anyway, the one thing he didn’t want was a lot of pain. There was the possibility of self-strangulation; he had several ties he could string together but no handy hook in the ceiling from which to swing and the duvet on the bed meant he couldn’t tie sheets together in the traditional way but nevertheless, strangulation appealed to him. He’d played around once or twice with strangulation sex in the past but that required absolute trust that the person tightening the noose would loosen it at precisely the right time. There was virtually no one these days he could trust not to finish off the job just after ejaculation! He had watched others in action during parties though and was always fascinated by the sexual ecstasy that being deprived of oxygen could create. The danger provided that extra kick resulting in spectacular orgasms but it was also something for the spectator too; that chance that it might all go wrong brought a thrilling frisson to the proceedings. Yes, asphyxiation appealed to him but here in this place and under these circumstances it was far more likely that it would go wrong for the wrong reasons. He also considered aggravating his fellow inmates, especially the two Tunisians. He was sure that with enough provocation they could be persuaded to slip a knife between his ribs but there again, there were no guarantees of success and a martyr’s death. It was with all these thoughts coursing through his mind and the determination to find a way, that he fell asleep. The last hour of the day had been the only one worth living and he had devoted it to thoughts of death.
The two young lawyers arrived at the prescribed time the following morning, in the company of a sour-faced woman in power-suit and high heels to whom he took an instant dislike.
“Ilse de Groot,”
“Arjan de Clerck.”
After that most perfunctory of introductions she sat down to business and the men followed. Resisting the impulse to bow, he admired the force that made him want to. He glanced questioningly at the others but his look was avoided; all the body language suggested subservience to this woman.
“Good, let’s see; Mr de Clerck…”
Opening a file, she straightened a sheaf of papers and glancing just long enough at the text, she proceeded,
“…I have some news for you.”
She peered at him over rimless and highly fashionable glasses which gave the slightest hint of authority without making the wearer look gormless. Somewhere in her forties he surmised, she seemed to Arjan one of those women who’d had to scratch and claw her way to the top and had acquired that hard shell which made her impervious to the sneers of men. By no means classically attractive, with hair swept back into a gleaming bun, framing the plainest of faces, Arjan nevertheless caught the whiff of sexual allure that superb grooming and subtle make up and above all power can give a woman. He was pretty much immune of course but could see that the two younger men were firmly in the web. This was clearly a person with balls.
“I’ll get straight to the point. You may be relieved to know that the office of Public Prosecution has made something of a monumental cock up in your case. I’m not surprised; unless someone shoots someone dead in the middle of a police station with fifty witnesses and then admits they hated the victim because of the colour of his socks, those morons couldn’t prosecute a goldfish in a bowl of water. I blame the educational system myself; they can’t read, they can’t spell and the idea of producing multi documentation is akin to a Moonwalk without oxygen for most of them. Fortunately for you Mr. de Clerck, your case is about as complex as it gets and their paperwork is as full of holes as a salad drainer. With a modicum of luck, you’ll walk free after an extended trial period during which the police and prosecutors will gnash their teeth and blame everybody else but themselves. It may take some time but that’s also to your advantage. The longer you stay in custody, the more likely that time will wipe out any token sentence they might give you for some technicality.
You may have wondered why so little was happening yesterday? Basically, they were running round in circles trying to bite their own tails. From what I can gather, our beloved Prime Minister is spitting feathers! Many heads will roll over this one; not least of which probably his when the elections are over. It never ceases to amaze me how much scum crawls back on the streets after trial miscarriages in this country. It’s their own fault of course; if you want every single piece of documentation reproduced in triplicate, including the paper used to wipe the defendant’s arse; then you’ve got to expect the illiteracy factor to screw up the system. Anyway, that’s of course of little consequence to you Mr. de Clerck; you’re going to walk free, though I do suggest planning an extended holiday if you want to avoid the press bloodhounds but then again, you’ve already tried that haven’t you?”
He didn’t really take it all in. After an exhausting night of contemplating suicide, this required a volte face of monumental size and he wasn’t mentally ready yet. It had all been delivered at pace, in a highly stentorian tone and he got the impression that if he didn’t react soon, he’d be watching the dust of her departure. There wasn’t a hint of warmth or pleasure; no smile or twinkle in the eyes and he was left under no illusion that she thoroughly disapproved of his good fortune but good news was good news and this was the best! His mind raced ahead and his father’s face loomed up as challenge number one but a note of caution soon wormed its way in.
“Let me get this straight; are you saying the charges will be dropped, or will I still be tried and found not guilty on technicalities? How long, do you think I’ll stay locked up? By the way, are you my lawyer now or just delivering a message?”
She sneered at the insinuation and as if her schedule didn’t include time for question and answer sessions, snapped back.
“I am your lawyer yes; always was but there was little need for my intervention until now. As far as the rest is concerned, it shouldn’t matter to you how long you’ll stay in custody; I’d have thought that getting off virtually without penalty should be seen as the luckiest moment in your life. However, I don’t believe in time wasting so by the time I’m finished with them they’ll be glad to get rid of you. You do realise that this trial already goes down as one of the fastest in modern legal history, don’t you? Another government blunder of course. If they hadn’t been so keen to hang you and save their own faces, they might have avoided some of the administrative fuck ups but ho hum, that’s what makes my life so easy sometimes. You can count on a few more weeks for certain, after that it depends on their face-saving strategy. Most likely, the charges will be dropped; they can’t do otherwise; four major errors in the paperwork; they haven’t got a chance! It’s always possible of course, that the powers that be will want to rush lemming-like over the cliff and pursue the trial to its humiliating end but I doubt it somehow; even their bozos will see the stupidity in that! Anyway, I’ll leave my two colleagues here to go through the details of the forthcoming procedure with you.”
She rose to her feet; clearly the audience was over. Without shaking hands, she turned and headed for the door, then stopped and gave him another I’ve stepped on something nasty look.
“Oh, one more thing Mr de Clerck; I understand you’re under some personal pressure in here. Do you want me to arrange a move to somewhere a little more relaxed?”
She’d clearly done her homework; despite the clichés, this was a woman he could turn straight for!
Friday, January 13th
For his fourth and hopefully decisive appearance in court, Arjan decided to follow his lawyers’ advice and dress soberly. Everything was toned down so that he appeared less the successful businessman in Armani and more the repentant and outwardly decent citizen. Whether it would have any influence at all he didn’t know but he sincerely doubted it. It was clear that he was going to be severely dealt with. Everything was against him. The indecent haste whereby everything had been rushed through at the instigation of faceless bureaucrats from the Office of Public Prosecutions had alarmed everyone, not least his lawyers, who displayed less enthusiasm for his defence by the day. The instigation of the tough, new laws designed to stamp out precisely the sort of things Arjan was accused of, meant that he was to be high-profile-case number one. If the government was to mean what it said, then Arjan needed to be hit with everything they’d got. His background wasn’t exactly a help either. There’s nothing people like more than to see a successful man brought down. As owner of a gay boys’ club which everyone understood to be a bordello; as well as being the owner of The Anvil, he could hardly count on public sympathy. Making enemies all his life hadn’t helped either. There was practically no one who could be found to come forward as a character witness on his behalf and God knows, the lawyers had scraped every seedy barrel they could find in the search.
It was one of those particularly nasty January days where the mist froze like a shroud over the city and the cold seeped into everyone’s bones. People with rheumatism groaned on waking up; they knew the day would be painful. Arjan knew it too and for once his unshakeable belief in his own Houdini abilities was missing. All he could see ahead of him was a number of years in custody, surrounded either by fellow prisoners who couldn’t see past the fact that he was gay and associated him with every dumb action the activists had been taking; or by guards whose singular lack of sympathy meant he was treated like a parasite; sneered at and scorned at every opportunity. He had already been confronted by two North Africans as he emerged from the showers after a session in the prison gym. At first, they’d used their heavily accented Dutch to heap insults upon him, threatening to castrate him with kitchen knives and rid the world of a ‘filthy faggot’ but then the threats quickly became sexually tinged, as they began to demand favours and services they felt sure he could provide. The suggestion was that he could gain protection from the prison Muslim community; though he knew they weren’t the only group he had to fear. Thanks to the furore over the fire and its consequences, plus the anti-gay feelings being propagated by the press, his prison status wasn’t much higher than that of the child molesters and rapists. He had to admit he was frightened. Although physically no coward, he felt helpless in the face of such aggression. There was a sinking realisation that he would have to make a stand here and suffer the consequences, or become an easy target and he’d seen too many American films to find that an attractive proposition. The situation was only temporarily relieved by the appearance of a guard giving him the opportunity to get away but it was only a matter of time before he would be faced with a similar situation and the ultimate survivor was as close to despair as he’d ever been.
His two lawyers came for a pre-appearance meeting but there was little more to be said. His case, that he could not be held directly culpable for the fatalities because the cause of the fire had been found to be arson, sounded weak in the face of a public outcry for a scapegoat. He was faced with multiple charges of manslaughter and negligence and the fact that he’d fled the country didn’t exactly help. The trial was being given maximum publicity and the eyes of the country were fixed on his anticipated conviction and downfall. The government’s very credibility depended on a ruthless execution of the law; there was no way he could win.
As it turned out, the first day was pretty much an anticlimax. Depositions were read and peripheral evidence was heard, little of it relating directly to Arjan and he spent most of the day sitting back and chewing his nails, which had long since lost their manicured splendour. He heard lawyers for the prosecution outlining procedures in that monotonic manner of theirs and his own representatives responding with a similar lack of genuine interest. He watched the press posse as they one by one, gradually lost interest and left the room and examined every court official’s face for signs of personality but it was one of those days devoted to administration; necessary but undeniably boring. Nothing more would happen until the Monday.
Later, after he’d returned exhausted to his cell, it took a while for his body to readjust to what were now familiar surroundings. The courtroom was so sterile and anonymous. Everything was new and tasteful and the furniture was fashionably natural wood but the lighting was cold and glaring; everyone looked sickly pale and he wasn’t the only one who came away with sore eyes and a tension headache. Even the portrait of the queen above the bench was verging on the abstract. He’d studied every line but its deliberate post modernist bleakness meant that its depths could be explored in a matter of minutes. Only one judge had bothered to turn up though he’d been told that he would be tried by three. Apparently, the first day was designed to be a non-event. His lawyer had told him that that was in his favour; it took some of the sting out of the media hype but it just succeeded in depressing him further. Dutch trials were often drawn-out affairs, with long periods of inaction as various parties gathered this or that evidence and the finer points of the law were discussed to their minutiae. How many days, weeks or months would he have to wait before they finally found him guilty, locked him up and threw away the key? Despite feeling somewhat of a martyr; after all he wasn’t the first defendant in history to be sacrificed in the name of political expediency; those few hours back in his cell were amongst the most difficult of his life.
Sitting in the chair by the desk, he stared unfeelingly up at the sky. Overwhelmingly grey and featureless it offered no consolation whatsoever, merely confirming his imprisonment. He couldn’t face watching television or listening to the radio; wasn’t interested in picking up a book or a magazine and had none of his usual cravings for chocolate, although a half eaten bar lay by his bed. He felt completely blank and uninspired and as a result, his thoughts could only head in one direction.
Looking around him, he examined the room for a means to an end. Nothing sprang to mind but the feeling grew stronger and stronger. If he could, he’d finish it now. What was the point of living without the high points; without the money, the power and the thrill of sex? He felt destined to spend years in one sterile environment or another. His cell was sterile; he hadn’t had any inclination to spice it up the way other prisoners did, with photos or posters or pages from sex magazines, so it remained as it was when he’d moved in; a room in which to exist and nothing more. This prison or any other for that matter was nothing more than an institution for keeping large numbers of men out of the public eye for indeterminate periods of time. The work he’d been offered seemed futile and the company he would be forced to keep was both psychologically and intellectually disturbed. Who would he make a friend? Nobody! In ‘normal’ life he was a loner and in here he would be even more so but without the freedom to choose to be so. It all felt so pointless and the claustrophobia began to eat away at his resolve and any remaining fragments of optimism that he might somehow wake up to find it had all been a dreadful mistake. Arjan was first and foremost a battler, a scrapper and a survivor but now he felt beaten and reduced. There was no point in carrying on; what for? His father had outwitted him at every turn and he didn’t suppose that an early release would mean he could just snap back into his old life. That too would be a battle and the way he felt at the moment, he would soon be back behind bars for first degree murder! Not that he cared what the rest of the world did or thought but looking round his cell for a means of committing suicide seemed absolutely logical and better for everyone, not least himself. The problem was, he was still thinking lucidly, still calculating, therefore he could see that whatever method he chose had to be one that would work. He wasn’t so confused and disturbed that the most important thing was the act itself, irrespective of the outcome. He reasoned that most suicides were done without much thought or planning and as a result were mostly messy and humiliating failures. He didn’t see himself as psychologically so far gone that suicide was an irresistible impulse and that any means would do. He saw it as a logical step, having weighed up all the pros and cons in advance. It was by far the better of two evils but if it was to happen then he wanted to make sure that it was clean, painless and above all, successful. Other people didn’t come into the equation. There was nobody to mourn his passing but he reasoned that if he was to go down in history, it would be with a modicum of sympathy, as the perceived victim of political chicanery; guilty as charged maybe but not deserving of such an end.
It all seemed so fitting somehow though if he had thought there was the slightest chance of coming out of this a free man, it wouldn’t have entered his head but how would he do it and if a method were found, could he do it? There was nothing in the cell that would deliver him from this mortal coil quickly and painlessly. Safety razors were hardly the stuff of a suicidal man’s must-have list; scissors weren’t allowed, or knives for that matter and anyway, the one thing he didn’t want was a lot of pain. There was the possibility of self-strangulation; he had several ties he could string together but no handy hook in the ceiling from which to swing and the duvet on the bed meant he couldn’t tie sheets together in the traditional way but nevertheless, strangulation appealed to him. He’d played around once or twice with strangulation sex in the past but that required absolute trust that the person tightening the noose would loosen it at precisely the right time. There was virtually no one these days he could trust not to finish off the job just after ejaculation! He had watched others in action during parties though and was always fascinated by the sexual ecstasy that being deprived of oxygen could create. The danger provided that extra kick resulting in spectacular orgasms but it was also something for the spectator too; that chance that it might all go wrong brought a thrilling frisson to the proceedings. Yes, asphyxiation appealed to him but here in this place and under these circumstances it was far more likely that it would go wrong for the wrong reasons. He also considered aggravating his fellow inmates, especially the two Tunisians. He was sure that with enough provocation they could be persuaded to slip a knife between his ribs but there again, there were no guarantees of success and a martyr’s death. It was with all these thoughts coursing through his mind and the determination to find a way, that he fell asleep. The last hour of the day had been the only one worth living and he had devoted it to thoughts of death.
The two young lawyers arrived at the prescribed time the following morning, in the company of a sour-faced woman in power-suit and high heels to whom he took an instant dislike.
“Ilse de Groot,”
“Arjan de Clerck.”
After that most perfunctory of introductions she sat down to business and the men followed. Resisting the impulse to bow, he admired the force that made him want to. He glanced questioningly at the others but his look was avoided; all the body language suggested subservience to this woman.
“Good, let’s see; Mr de Clerck…”
Opening a file, she straightened a sheaf of papers and glancing just long enough at the text, she proceeded,
“…I have some news for you.”
She peered at him over rimless and highly fashionable glasses which gave the slightest hint of authority without making the wearer look gormless. Somewhere in her forties he surmised, she seemed to Arjan one of those women who’d had to scratch and claw her way to the top and had acquired that hard shell which made her impervious to the sneers of men. By no means classically attractive, with hair swept back into a gleaming bun, framing the plainest of faces, Arjan nevertheless caught the whiff of sexual allure that superb grooming and subtle make up and above all power can give a woman. He was pretty much immune of course but could see that the two younger men were firmly in the web. This was clearly a person with balls.
“I’ll get straight to the point. You may be relieved to know that the office of Public Prosecution has made something of a monumental cock up in your case. I’m not surprised; unless someone shoots someone dead in the middle of a police station with fifty witnesses and then admits they hated the victim because of the colour of his socks, those morons couldn’t prosecute a goldfish in a bowl of water. I blame the educational system myself; they can’t read, they can’t spell and the idea of producing multi documentation is akin to a Moonwalk without oxygen for most of them. Fortunately for you Mr. de Clerck, your case is about as complex as it gets and their paperwork is as full of holes as a salad drainer. With a modicum of luck, you’ll walk free after an extended trial period during which the police and prosecutors will gnash their teeth and blame everybody else but themselves. It may take some time but that’s also to your advantage. The longer you stay in custody, the more likely that time will wipe out any token sentence they might give you for some technicality.
You may have wondered why so little was happening yesterday? Basically, they were running round in circles trying to bite their own tails. From what I can gather, our beloved Prime Minister is spitting feathers! Many heads will roll over this one; not least of which probably his when the elections are over. It never ceases to amaze me how much scum crawls back on the streets after trial miscarriages in this country. It’s their own fault of course; if you want every single piece of documentation reproduced in triplicate, including the paper used to wipe the defendant’s arse; then you’ve got to expect the illiteracy factor to screw up the system. Anyway, that’s of course of little consequence to you Mr. de Clerck; you’re going to walk free, though I do suggest planning an extended holiday if you want to avoid the press bloodhounds but then again, you’ve already tried that haven’t you?”
He didn’t really take it all in. After an exhausting night of contemplating suicide, this required a volte face of monumental size and he wasn’t mentally ready yet. It had all been delivered at pace, in a highly stentorian tone and he got the impression that if he didn’t react soon, he’d be watching the dust of her departure. There wasn’t a hint of warmth or pleasure; no smile or twinkle in the eyes and he was left under no illusion that she thoroughly disapproved of his good fortune but good news was good news and this was the best! His mind raced ahead and his father’s face loomed up as challenge number one but a note of caution soon wormed its way in.
“Let me get this straight; are you saying the charges will be dropped, or will I still be tried and found not guilty on technicalities? How long, do you think I’ll stay locked up? By the way, are you my lawyer now or just delivering a message?”
She sneered at the insinuation and as if her schedule didn’t include time for question and answer sessions, snapped back.
“I am your lawyer yes; always was but there was little need for my intervention until now. As far as the rest is concerned, it shouldn’t matter to you how long you’ll stay in custody; I’d have thought that getting off virtually without penalty should be seen as the luckiest moment in your life. However, I don’t believe in time wasting so by the time I’m finished with them they’ll be glad to get rid of you. You do realise that this trial already goes down as one of the fastest in modern legal history, don’t you? Another government blunder of course. If they hadn’t been so keen to hang you and save their own faces, they might have avoided some of the administrative fuck ups but ho hum, that’s what makes my life so easy sometimes. You can count on a few more weeks for certain, after that it depends on their face-saving strategy. Most likely, the charges will be dropped; they can’t do otherwise; four major errors in the paperwork; they haven’t got a chance! It’s always possible of course, that the powers that be will want to rush lemming-like over the cliff and pursue the trial to its humiliating end but I doubt it somehow; even their bozos will see the stupidity in that! Anyway, I’ll leave my two colleagues here to go through the details of the forthcoming procedure with you.”
She rose to her feet; clearly the audience was over. Without shaking hands, she turned and headed for the door, then stopped and gave him another I’ve stepped on something nasty look.
“Oh, one more thing Mr de Clerck; I understand you’re under some personal pressure in here. Do you want me to arrange a move to somewhere a little more relaxed?”
She’d clearly done her homework; despite the clichés, this was a woman he could turn straight for!
The Amsterdam Series
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53. Unlucky for some
