As I’m getting closer to my full first draft of “Ghost Ship”, it seems appropriate to begin posting a few short teaser chapters. While featuring some of the same characters (both living and dead) as “Broken Shards”, and explaining how Hauke came to know them, it introduces many new characters. Perhaps more importantly, it tells how Hauke acquired his houseboat, the “Tijdgeest”, and his introduction to Persephone. Although a prequel, set in the years when Hauke was still a teenager (2013-2021) and before he met Sanne, “Ghost Ship” is darker than “Broken Shards”.

Altered Skin

April 2017

At the far end of Havenstraat in the Schinkelbuurt district, near where that short street meets the electric tramline, stands a collection of ramshackle buildings — if such structures could truly be called buildings. This isn’t a part of the city where the tourists ever visit. It isn’t even somewhere that the residents of Amsterdam will willingly go, not unless they have desperate business here. It’s a cluster of small shacks and makeshift properties beside the derelict sidings of the old railway yard. Long grass grew up between the tram tracks, and the woman stepped carefully, so as not to dirty her shoes.
The grating sound of metal on metal emanated from a run-down bicycle repair shop. Dark smoke drifted from the chimney of a concrete box with a rusty corrugated iron roof. Another building looked like a converted shipping container, its paint peeling away, leaving the bare metal exposed. And something was growing, probably something illegal, under a battered and torn polytunnel. The smells of stale urine and garbage hung heavy in the air.
The building that she was looking for stood across the tramline, on a rough track, potted with water-filled holes, and with grass growing through the thin covering of gravel. It had taken her a while to find, and now she paused outside the “Altered Skin” struggling to read the name through the mass of graffiti and street art covering its walls. The tattoo studio was little more than a flimsy wooden garden shed. No light was visible in the window — perhaps there was a curtain — but images and photographs of designs were stuck to the filthy glass. That at least suggested she’d found the right place, while the strains of Metallica’s “Phantom Lord” through the door told her that somebody was home.

She knocked. Then again, more loudly.
The woman who eventually answered was in her late thirties, with her long blonde hair that she was still tying back with a clip as she opened the door. The low-cut blouse that she wore revealed a lot of inkwork on her arms, round her neck, and on the exposed top of her chest.
“Hello. Are you Eirene?” The young woman standing outside asked.
“I am, but you can call me Irene, if you prefer.”
“I’m Alice. We spoke on the phone.”
“Yes! Of course. Come in. Sit yourself down and we can have a coffee while you tell me again what you want. You gave me some idea in your messages, something in an intimate location.”
“Yes. On my thighs and hips, on my pelvis close to my… you know. I shaved especially this morning. My boyfriend is away at the moment, but I think he’ll love it when he returns home and I let him find it there.”
The young woman stepped into the cabin, and Eirene closed the door behind her.
“I was thinking,” she continued. “Perhaps an angelic figure on one side and a demon on the other. Looking at each other across my…”
Her voice trailed off as she looked around the studio. The room wasn’t large. Two chairs and a table near the door, with various books holding photographs and designs on the table, and a small corner where Eirene had a sink, a kettle and a microwave. There was a free-standing full-length mirror at the back beside an adjustable tattooist bed, with a stool and the other accoutrements of her trade. A black curtain hung along the back wall. She guessed there might be a bathroom behind.
Eirene busied herself making them each a coffee, apologising that it was only instant as she set the two mugs down on the table.
“You said on the phone that this would be your first tattoo. Do you realise how painful it will be on that part of your body? And you’ll be uncomfortable for a few days afterwards once it begins to heal?”
“I can enjoy a bit of pain,” Alice smiled to herself. “And I’m a quick healer.”
“If you’re really sure, then we’re going to want some privacy for that.”
Alice idly thumbed through the books sitting on the table as Irene went and locked the door.
“Wow! That dragon is incredible. There’s so much detail.” She tucked a strand of her long white hair that had come loose behind her ear. “And it almost looks alive.”
“That was a commission I did for a friend, and it took me six full days to complete. He doesn’t have a high pain threshold, so I did the work in stages, over a period of two months. That allowed each stage time to heal before I did the next.”

“You’ve looked through my online design catalogue, and my books here. Did you see anything similar to what you want? I can do a custom design if you’d prefer, but that will take a day or two, depending on how complicated you want it.”
“Well, there was one angel image on your website that I particularly liked, done in an anime style, but the photograph showed it on someone’s shoulder.”
“That was a design I made for myself a couple of years ago. My partner did the actual tattoo work for me. Would you like to see?”
Alice nodded, and Eirene pulled down the sleeve of her blouse, turning her shoulder toward the young woman.
“That is nice. She looks so very sexy and erotic. You think she would look good on my thigh?”
“I think it would work, but I don’t have any similar anime demon designs for the other side.”
“That’s a shame. I think a sexy anime devil would look great on my other thigh.”
“Perhaps we could split the work over two sessions.” Eirene suggested. “I can do that angel for you today, and I can design a devil in a similar anime style over the next few days. Then you come back for the second sitting once you’re happy with my design.”
“That sounds like a plan. I’m good with that. How long will it be?” Alice asked.
“The black outline will take about two to three hours, unless you want colour as well. That would be about two hours longer.”

“But before we begin, though. You look young.” The tattooist apologised. “Can you show me your ID? Or a parental consent form? The law is quite strict about this, and we need to keep records.”
Grudgingly, Alice took out her purse and passed her ID card across the table.
“You didn’t ask for any ID from the boy you did that dragon for.” She grumbled. “And I’m older than him.”
“You know him?” Eirene’s tone was suddenly suspicious.
“Of course I know Hauke. It was him that recommended you to me.” Alice tried to make her voice sound casual.
“And this ID says your name is…”
She could almost see Eirene’s mental defences slamming into place as the woman’s eyes narrowed, but such protections were of little help as the girl calling herself Alice darted forward at a speed that no human could match, and ripped the woman’s throat out with her teeth.

“It’s a shame I had to do this so soon, before you could work your artistry on me.” She told the ravaged corpse lying on the floor. “As an artist myself, I can appreciate your skills, and I’d have liked those angel/demon tattoos looking at each other across my pussy. We could have been friends. Why did you have to spoil it?”

On the way out, Alukah’s voice in her head reminded her to pick up the tattooist’s laptop, appointments book, and phone. There might not be any record of her visit, but there was no sense in leaving any loose ends lying around. Behind her, the Sisters of Mercy were telling her to “Walk Away”.

---

It wasn’t easy for the Politie to establish a cordon around the street, but they had put barriers at each end of the lane, and Agents to prevent anybody from passing through. The flashing blue lights reflected in the windows of the cars parked in the old railway sidings warned me before the tape barrier came in sight. Forewarned that something was wrong, and curious about what might have happened in that run-down part of town, I slipped through the curtain into the Veil, walked through the barriers, and went to investigate.

A team in forensic suits was doing a fingertip search of the street, and my heart sank as I saw where their investigation was focused. Reaching out with my other senses, I scanned to see if there were any more sensitives nearby, perhaps among the police investigation team: a big negative. The absence of any Talents in the area was both reassuring and worrying at the same time. It meant that nobody here would notice my presence, so long as I remained in the Veil. But it also meant that Eirene wasn’t in her studio: usually she would already be waiting there for me when I had an appointment scheduled. I realised how wrong I was when I stepped cautiously into the building and looked through the curtain. Eirene was still in her studio. Her lifeless body lay sprawled on the floor beside the overturned table, her throat ripped out. I cast about in the Veil, but couldn’t sense her. How had I missed her transition?
“Oh, Eirene! Not you too. I’m so sorry.”

From where I was eavesdropping in the Veil, I could overhear the two men dressed in plain clothes but wearing police badges who stood at the doorway of the “Altered Skin”, looking on as the men in white bunny suits and gloves went about their work inside.
“Everything suggests that she was killed in there, but there’s not enough blood. Not for that type of throat wound.”
It was the younger of the two who had spoken.
“Wait till the forensics have finished their job and we can get the body to the morgue for an autopsy.” His senior advised. “Then we’re not just speculating about the place or cause of death.”

“So tell me what we know about her?” The older Inspecteur asked.
The younger of the two looked at the ID in its plastic bag.
“The victim is Eirene Sifakis. Originally from Greece. Lived here in the Netherlands for the last seven years. Made a living on the fringes as a tattoo artist, specialising in erotic art. This is her studio, and some of the photographs in the window showcasing her work are very explicit, even disturbing. Not the sort of thing I’d like my nephew or nieces to see. She was a Registered Talent: rated 1.8Cb as a channeler, whatever that is.”
“So, it’s not technically a murder if she’s a deevie. Nobody is going to be too cut up if we can’t find the killer. Not unless there’s some evidence to suggest that the perpetrator was another deevie and might move on to killing normal humans.”
“Try telling that to her partner, who found the body. At the moment, he’s sitting in a car at the end of the street with a bereavement officer. Or break the news to her parents.”
“That’s not our problem. It’s up to the Greek police to inform her family: all we do is notify them. All these years, and you still haven’t learned to distance yourself, Visser. Has the boyfriend told us anything useful?”
The one called Visser consulted his notebook.
“It was him that reported the murder. He was worried that she’d been away all night, so came down here in his lunch break to check if she wanted anything. The remains of his lunch is just outside the door.”
“Why did he wait until lunchtime before checking on her?”
“According to his statement, he knew she only had one appointment scheduled yesterday, in the evening. It was a new client, a woman who wanted something a bit risqué, and that would probably take a lot of time. She mainly caters for those who like erotic, even pornographic images, or tattoos in intimate locations.”
“To each their own, I guess.” The Inspecteur interrupted. “I never could understand why some people choose to abuse their bodies in that way.”
Visser ignored the comment.
“It wasn’t unusual for her to work evenings and even overnight, apparently. That’s why he wasn’t too worried when she didn’t come home last night. She had a camp bed set up in a back room behind the curtain for those occasions. But he didn’t know any details about her client, and there’s no laptop, phone or appointment book here that might give us any clues.”
“They’ve probably been taken and dumped. The studio backs directly onto the Stadiongracht. It might be worth getting a dive team to search there for them?” The officer suggested. “But we won’t get that approved just for a dead deevie, no matter how they died.”
“They already found two broken coffee mugs on the floor under the table. Perhaps we’ll get lucky with a fingerprint or some DNA.”
“Even if we do get a lucky break, it’s not much use until we have a suspect.”

“This one reminds me of that prostitute in the Oude Nieuwstraat back in February. What was her name? Yolanda Alvarado? Similar MO with her throat ripped out, and they couldn’t explain the lack of blood in the room then either. She was also a registered Talent: a minor Telepath, and a Psychometrist, whatever one of those is.”
“Don’t speculate until we have the forensic reports, Dirk.” The older Inspecteur’s switch to his Brigadier’s first name spoke volumes. “It’s never a good idea to link cases until we have any evidence to support the connection. Nobody at Elandsgracht wants to hear any suggestion that there’s a serial killer stalking the city, even if they are only murdering deevies.”

“Sir, why do we get assigned to all the weird cases?”
“I don’t know, and I don’t care. Years ago, when I was still young and idealistic, like you are now, I must have pissed some Commisaris off. I can’t even remember.” The older man growled. “But I’m due to retire at the end of June, so they’ll all be your cases then.”
“Why should I inherit them? Surely they’ll just transfer me to work with somebody else? Or bring in someone new to head up the unit?”
“You’re always making waves: that’s probably why they assigned you to work with me. So now we’re both stuck with those weird cases. From July, you’re on your own. At least they’ll probably promote you to Inspecteur. You have all the qualifications.”

“Come on! It’s going to be a while before forensics finish their work here. Let’s go find a coffee. They’ll call us when they’re done. And there must be a decent café somewhere near Stadionplein where we can get a coffee without it being too crowded. And you can have a smoke on the way: I can see your fingers itching. We mustn’t contaminate the crime scene with your butts.”
I watched as they slowly headed down Havenstraat, the younger man lighting up a cigarette as they walked away.

Why couldn’t I sense Eirene in the Veil. Even if she had only passed through before going on to one of the Lands Beyond Death, I should have felt some vestige of her passing. It had been the same with Yolanda: the Brigadier was surely right that the two incidents were connected. And I was a common link between the killings of the two women.