Black Widow. Isadora Bryan

was,’ Ursula affirmed, even though this wasn’t actually true. The thought of Maria parading about for the benefit of a hundred strangers had maddened her. She knew the lines as well as Maria, from the precious, late-night rehearsals in their room. Why share that with so many others?

      So, on the occasion of last night’s premiere, she’d found something else to do. Something constructive. And her efforts had borne fruit. Overripe, treacherous fruit, swinging black and fermented on a man-tree of withered limbs.

      ‘And you’re sure I was okay?’ Maria fretted. ‘Only I was a little worried that my timing was off, and you know, I’m really a bit too young to be playing Nora, but there was no one else willing to take her on, and, well –’

      Ursula wanted to take Maria by the shoulders, and shake some sense into her; to say, It’s only a fucking play. Why don’t you devote your energies to real life. To me?

      ‘You were great,’ she said.

      ‘Thanks!’ Maria gave her a grateful pat on the arm. ‘So where did you go afterwards?’

      ‘Oh, I went out for a walk. I ended up in a bar.’

      ‘On your own?’

      ‘God, Maria, this is the twenty-first century. We don’t need to be escorted everywhere.’

      ‘Well, I don’t think I could do it,’ Maria stated.

      ‘Well, you and I are a quite different, aren’t we? It’s why we work so well together.’

      The lecture finally drew to a close, and Ursula shepherded her friend outside. She’d recently discovered a pretty little arbour, set in the cleft of the old hospital kitchen, which would be a perfect spot to spend time together. The butterflies flitted about her stomach at the thought of it.

      ‘Maria.’

      It was their tutor, Dr Bleeker. A paternalistic fool. The last thing she needed was the interference of a self-appointed father figure. Especially now.

      ‘You need to come with me, Maria,’ he said, wringing his hands all the while. ‘It’s the police. They want to speak with you.’

      The blood drained completely from Maria’s face. ‘Mikael?’ she stammered. ‘Is it Mikael?’

      ‘Please, Maria, follow me,’ was all Bleeker would say.

      Maria did so, Ursula a pace behind. They moved along hitherto secret corridors, through a portion of the Binnengasthuis which, in darker days, had resounded to the cries of the mentally ill.

      Two faces drifted into view. She saw a middle-aged woman, of somewhat less than medium height. She was soberly dressed in a dark skirt and light blouse, but there was a sense that a fit body lurked beneath. There was a haunted quality to her expression, whilst the lines on her face told the tale of some past trauma, albeit in a language which eluded Ursula’s powers of translation. Her eyes were the colour of burnt terracotta, or Tuscan sunsets. Such heat, when everything else about her was set cold.

      Her hair was short, and dark, and all in all it was a look which might have conveyed some other connotation, if not for the aura of obvious and pained heterosexuality which surrounded her. Ursula was skilled at spotting the signs; she knew a slave to that hateful convention when she saw one.

      There was a man, too.

      ‘This is Maria,’ Dr Bleeker said. ‘And her friend, Ursula.’

      ‘I am Detective Inspector Pino,’ the woman introduced herself as Bleeker left. ‘And this is Detective Kissin. I’d like to ask you a few questions, Ms Berger, if I may. Concerning Mikael Ruben.’

      ‘Can Ursula stay?’ Maria asked tremulously.

      Detective Pino nodded, her expression conveying what might almost have been compassion. ‘For the moment. So, the first question concerns your whereabouts yesterday evening.’

      ‘I was at the theatre,’ Maria replied. ‘I’m a member of the Theatrical Society. It was our opening night of our play.’

      ‘What time did the play finish?’ Pino asked.

      Maria placed her head in her hands. She was starting to shake. ‘About ten o’clock, I think.’

      ‘And where did you go afterwards?’

      ‘To a party. At the director’s house, on Linden Straat. He gave me a lift.’ She looked to Ursula for support. But Ursula could only stare.

      And squeeze her friend’s hand. Maria flashed her a grateful look. Ursula nodded, and battled to keep her happiness to herself.

      ‘Mikael said that he was going to try to get there,’ Maria continued. ‘But he never came.’

      ‘Did you try to phone him?’ Kissin asked.

      ‘Yes,’ Maria replied. ‘Of course.’

      ‘But there was no answer?’

      ‘No. It just kept ringing until it went through to his answering service.’

      ‘And after the party, Ms. Berger?’ Pino pressed. ‘What then?’

      ‘I stayed for a few hours. And then I went home.’ She shook her head. ‘But please, what’s happened?’

      Pino sighed. ‘I’m sorry Maria. There’s been a murder. Mikael is dead.’

      What followed was mostly a blur. Pino put her arm around Maria’s shoulders – Ursula could have punched her for it, the bitch – then shepherded the sobbing girl away to a car. Ursula tried to follow, of course she did, but the brutish man stayed her with a shake of his head.

      So she retreated to her secret arbour, alone. She sat with her hands folded in her lap, placid, girl-like.

      But only for a moment. She felt an itching at her wrist, which soon spread up her arm. She knew what it was. She rolled up her sleeve, nodding in satisfaction at the network of old scars, the most recent wound still covered in a scab.

      She fished her scalpel out of her bag, and took off the plastic guard. With delightful, excruciating slowness, she carved an M in the fleshy part below her elbow.

      She followed the streak of crimson at it intertwined with her fingers. It provided confirmation, of sorts, of what was happening inside. Maybe that was the most important thing.

      There was a black space inside her. It forged blood, thick black blood, congealed before its time. And it was beautiful, because the alternative was to be a husk. Like her mother, perhaps.

      She took a few moments to compose her thoughts, then dabbed the blood away with a tissue and dropped the scalpel back into her bag.

      There was a camera in there. And a phone. And an apple. A set of keys. Her purse. The usual stuff.

      There was also a pocket, a secret pocket, built into the base. She unzipped it, removing her prize with trembling fingers.

      It was another phone. With twenty-three missed calls.

      Mikael Ruben’s.

      *

      In an oak-panelled room of antique books, the air musty with a dander of old glue and parchment, Mikael Ruben’s killer sat down to take tea.

      A map of Amsterdam was laid out before her. It had been adulterated with a succession of red crosses, marking the recent movements of her new friend. Of course, Jasper Endqvist didn’t know that they were friends, just yet.

      There were photographs of Jasper, too, depicting a successful, handsome man. He worked for an insurance company, but not out of desperation, or a lack of viable alternatives; he rather seemed to enjoy his work immensely. He was a creature of ordered, regular habit. She was sure that she might turn this to their mutual advantage.

      She sipped at her drink, her eyes downcast as she peered through the window to the