I needn’t have worried about her being able to handle the situation after two cocktails. Seems it takes far more than that to reduce her performance. I wonder just how experienced a drinker she is. Then I think of my voice, converted to a series of 1s and 0s, there for anyone to listen to, analyse. The scratching and whispering should be enough. Should. But there’s always a chance some hotshot audio engineer has developed a new technique for clearing up recordings. But I can’t think of that now.

‘No,’ I tell her. ‘Because that would make literally no sense.’

‘It would literally make a lot of sense.’

‘Something I’ve learnt over the years is that the odds are so stacked against you most of the time –’

‘You make your own odds?’

‘– that when you do get a break, sheer good luck, you have to grasp it.’

She stares at me as if by doing so she can reveal the truth.

‘I hope so,’ she finally says. ‘I really, really hope so.’

My phone goes off. I check the screen. Leah. Kush must be barking again. She’ll have to cope. I’ll be back there soon. I let it ring out and it starts again. Again I let it ring, again it finally cuts off then starts afresh.

‘Oh for fuck’s sake.’ Vermeer grabs the phone off me as I’m taking the third exit of a tricky roundabout.

‘Who’s Leah?’

‘My neighbour. She doesn’t like it when Kush barks.’

‘Rykel’s phone,’ she says, imitating a bored secretary. ‘How may I help?’

She listens for a few moments then, ‘What? Say that again.’ She listens then hangs up.

‘What is it?’

‘She said …’

‘What? What did she say?’

‘Your houseboat,’ she says, turning to look at me, her face flicking on and off in the passing street lights. ‘Your houseboat’s on fire.’

Stark Night

I can smell it before I even turn into Bloemgracht, that rich, dry rasp of woodsmoke cut with something more unsavoury: plastic, paint, unnatural things. I run down Bloemstraat, unable to see my houseboat yet, but Rashid’s coffee place across the canal gives me a taster, its windows ablaze with reflected flame. Blue lights flicker too, catching tree trunks and highlighting faces in windows as they watch the firefighters battle from the shore.

I’m running hard into the heavy, ballooning heat and a fireman sees me coming, throws an arm across my chest, stopping me getting any closer.

‘Have you seen my dog?’ I scream over the noise. ‘That’s my boat – have you seen my dog?’