The Night Ferry

lights make her blond hair and white panties glow like neon. A tiny triangle barely covers her crotch and two higher on her chest are pulled together to create a cleavage. The only other shadows darken the depression on either side of her pubic bone where the bikini is stretched tightly across her hips.

A balloon hangs from the window. Streamers. Birthday decorations? I hold the photograph against the glass. A flash of recognition. Something in her eyes.

“You know her?”

She shakes her head. She’s lying.

“Help me.”

There are traces of beauty in her cheekbones and the curve of her jaw. Her hair is parted. The thin scalp line is dark instead of white. She lowers her eyes. She’s curious.

The door opens. I step inside. The room is scarcely wide enough for a double bed, a chair and a small sink attached to the wall. Everything is pink, the pillows, sheets and the fresh towel lying on top. One entire wall is a mirror, reflecting the same scene so it looks like we’re sharing the room with another window.

The prostitute sips from a can of soft drink. “My name is Eve—just like the first woman.” She laughs sarcastically. “Welcome to my Garden of Eden.”

Leaning down she picks up a packet of cigarettes beneath her stool. Her breasts sway. She hasn’t bothered closing the curtain. Instead she stays by the window. I look at the bed and the chair, wondering where to sit.

Eve points to the bed. “Twenty euros, five minutes.”

Her accent is a mixture of Dutch and American. It’s another testament to the power of Hollywood which has taught generations of people in distant corners of the world to speak English.

I hand over the money. She palms it like a magician making a playing card disappear.

I hold up the photograph again. “Her name is Samira.”

“She’s one of the pregnant ones.”

I feel myself straighten. Invisible armor. Knowledge.

Eve shrugs. “Then again, I could be wrong.”

The thumbprint on her forearm is a bruise. Another on her neck is even darker.

“Where did you see her? When?”

“Sometimes I get asked to help with the new ones. To show them.”

“To show them what?”

She laughs and lights a cigarette. “What do you think? Sometimes they watch me from the chair or from the bed, depending on what the customer has paid for. Some of them like being watched. Makes it quicker.”

I’m about to ask about why she needs a chair, when I notice the strip of carpet on the floor to protect her knees.

“But you said she was pregnant. Why would you need to show her this?”

She rolls her eyes. “I’m giving you the five-minute version. That’s what you paid for.”

I nod.

“I saw her the first time in January. I remember because it was so cold that day.” She motions to the sink. “Cold water only. Like ice. They brought her to watch. Her eyes were bigger than this.” The prostitute makes fists with her hands. “I thought she was going to throw up. I told her to use the sink. I knew she was never going to make it as one of us. It’s only sex. A physical act. Men come and go. They cannot touch me here or here,” she says pointing to her heart and her head. “This girl acted as though she was saving herself. Another fucking virgin!” She flicks the ash from her cigarette.

“What happened?”

“Time’s up.” She holds out her hand for more money.

“That wasn’t five minutes.”

She points to the wall behind me. “You see that clock? I lie on my back and watch it for a living. Nobody judges five minutes like Ido.”

I hand her another twenty euros. “You said she was pregnant.”

“That was the next time I saw her.” Eve mimes the bump. “She was at a doctor’s clinic in Amersfoort. She was in the waiting room with a Serbian girl. Both of them were pregnant. I figured it was a welfare scam or they were trying to stay in the country by having a baby.”

“Did you talk to her?”

“No. I remember being surprised because I thought she was going to be the world’s last virgin.” The cigarette is burning near her knuckles.

“I need the name and address of the clinic.”

“Dr. Beyer. You’ll find him in the book.”

She crushes the cigarette beneath a sling-back shoe. A knock on the glass catches her attention. A man outside points first to me and then to Eve.

“What’s your name?” she whispers conspiratorially.

“Alisha.”

She reaches for the door. “He wants both of us, Alisha.”

“Don’t open it!”

“Don’t be so shy. He looks clean. I have condoms.”

“I’m not a—”

“Not a whore. Not a virgin either. You can make some money. Buy some decent clothes.”

There is a small commotion outside. More men are peering through the window. I’m on my feet. I want to leave. She is still trying to convince me. “What have you got to lose?”

I want to say my self-respect.

She opens the door. I have to squeeze past her. Her fingernail runs down my cheek and the tip of her tongue moistens her bottom lip. Men crowd the passageway, where the cobbles are slick and hard. I have to shoulder my way past them, smelling their bodies, brushing against them. My foot strikes a step and I stumble. A hand reaches out to help me but I slap it away irrationally, wanting to scream abuse at him. I was right about Samira. Right about the baby. That’s why Cate faked her pregnancy and carried Samira’s photograph.

A small patch of gray sky appears above the crush. Suddenly I’m out, in a wider street, drawing deep breaths. The dark water of the canal is slashed with red and lilac. I lean over a railing and vomit, adding to the color.

My mobile vibrates. Ruiz is on the move.

“I might have found someone,” he says, puffing slightly. “I was showing Samira’s photograph around Central Station. Most people didn’t want to know but this one kid acted real strange when he saw the picture.”

“You think he knew her?”

“Maybe. He wouldn’t tell the truth if God Almighty asked him for it.”

“Where is he now?”

“He took off. I’m fifty yards behind him.”

The DI rattles off a description of a teenage boy in a khaki camouflage jacket, jeans and sneakers.

“Damn!”

“What’s up?”

“My mobile is running low. Should have charged it last night. Nobody ever bloody calls me.”

“I do.”

“Yeah, well, that just goes to show you should get a life. I’ll try to give you a cross street. There’s a canal up ahead.”

“Which one?”

“They all look the same.”

I hear music in the background and a girl shouting from the windows.

“Hold on. Barndesteeg,” he says.

Standing in the ocher glow of a streetlight, I open a tourist map and run my finger down the names until I find the street grid reference. They’re not far away.

Movies and TV shows make it look easy to follow someone and not be seen, but the reality is very different. If