De Helleveeg Page #4

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is never mentioned by name.

But if I claim that this crime...

...and it was a crime...

...and the consequences

were Hanny's responsibility?

I only wanted to help you, you b*tch.

Some ignore a helping hand,

some press it against a white hot stove.

And sometimes a helping hand

ruins something for good.

You think about that one!

Well... erm... The cake is getting warm.

Hi there.

Koos...

Young Albert, leave your bike here

and come with us.

I don't want to take the bus to school

tomorrow.

Tiny, are you coming with us or what?

I don't want that woman in the taxi.

And never in my house again.

She is not welcome here either.

I don't see her as my daughter.

OK, then I'll go into a hotel.

Koos has the purse but never mind:

I'll play the whore in Eindhoven.

Don't act silly.

- Look who's talking.

Don't act silly?

Only you are allowed to do that.

Because you are so sensible.

And so straight-laced.

Calm, calm down.

Come to the taxi before worse happens.

Albert, get on your bike.

I want to hear you come home.

How I would love to hear a child

come home.

But that's impossible,

thanks to what you call silly things.

Have a proper examination.

- I did. Guess what the result was.

I want to get going.

Get on your bike, Albert.

Dad, it was a great party.

Tomorrow all will be forgotten.

I'll be the ruin of all of you.

And you first of all, you holier than thou.

Leave me alone.

The last bus is gone.

The next one isn't till tomorrow.

I'm not waiting for the bus.

I'm waiting for a customer.

Go away, otherwise they'll think

I've got somebody already.

Albert, bugger off.

I don't have enough for a hotel room.

Pity.

I only want clients who pay for a hotel.

But it'll buy a ticket to Breda.

I'll walk along with you to the station.

Are you cold?

None of them can stand the sight of me.

Except you.

More's the pity.

I want to be rid of them all.

I can do without them.

Remember that kennel

with that old woman?

What I need to square with Hanny

has something to do with it.

I won't see you at Grandma's then?

No? Just you wait.

I'm going to be there every week

from now on.

I'll ram in into them until they understand.

No skin so thick

but I will tear it in the end.

Good evening.

Are you Mr Egberts, Albert,

born on 30 April 1950?

Yes... yes.

I say, does superintendent Henneman

still work with you?

Karel Henneman?

- Yes, I was engaged to him once.

He's now our Chief of Police.

Just what my parents hoped for.

Married? Children?

We're not here to...

- But you can tell me how he is.

He has a family.

Two boys and two girls.

Say hello to him from

Tiny van der Serckt.

And then add:
Married. No children.

Mr Egberts...

...on your bicycle you left the address

Lynx Street number 12.

Your parents waited for two hour

before ringing us.

The trouble I predicted.

Beg your pardon?

- No, nothing.

I was saying I abducted my nephew

to use him as a sex slave, for me alone.

It's a punishable of fence to abduct

a minor from his parents.

But I'm his aunt.

They're terribly worried.

Are they? That's their problem.

Will you phone the station?

You can come with us.

I said I was abducting him...

...to use him as a sex slave,

for me alone.

What made you consort with a woman

who put the family to shame?

She stood at a bus stop in the night.

There was n bus due for hours.

I would have let her freeze to death.

Let her be stabbed to death.

And look at you...

Hello, who's that on the phone?

Albert Egberts. Hanny's son.

Your nephew. A friend.

So Pm Tiny Kassenaar.

What do you want?

I happened to be in Breda

so I thought...

Sorry. Koos is on a job out of town.

Won't be home before midnight.

Pity. Great pity. But if you don't mind

I'll pop in for a coffee.

That's ten years ago, isn't it?

I hardly recognize you with long hair.

Come on in.

How are things at the Kassenaars?

Same boring old way. That bloody

redhead is hardly ever at home.

Often away in the weekends, too.

Do you get out yourself?

For years I was holed up

in my parents' house.

Like a lynx in a cage

I got used to it.

So now I still stay in my cage.

I daren't leave my pen.

Don't spill any.

This morning I was thinking of when

Hasje played soldiers in New Guinea.

I was eleven.

A bit later you married Koos.

We were in bed together

and you told stories about Papuans.

Eleven? In my bed?

When you were four or five maybe.

But not a big boy of eleven.

And maybe go to prison?

Grandma had given me an Easter egg...

...and you demanded piece after piece.

I loved it.

And yes...

...sometimes it became a bit obscene.

You liar. Such a thing never happened.

This morning, under the shower...

...I got this enormous...

...nostalgia for our story-telling sessions.

Nearly made me feel sick.

It happened that badly once before.

When I'd taken you to the station

and you told the police...

...you were abducting me.

- To needle them, yes.

I wasn't serious. Their police dog

was more serious than me.

No, but... in the following days

and weeks it kept haunting me.

But you didn't come to Breda.

I was seventeen. I didn't dare.

Well... and now you suddenly do?

What's this then?

As an advance on the story-telling.

Don't you have a larger one?

That's too much laundry for me.

Hey... not so impatient.

First a piece of that egg.

Force of habit?

What is? What's the force of habit?

You keeping on your apron.

Young Albert...

You must untie the bow.

Again.

Once more.

Tiny, what is this about?

You don't understand much do you?

You haven't lost your figure.

- Surprised?

For a woman my age with no kids.

Nah...

I wouldn't mind some chocolate.

A foretaste...

Albert...you're only trying

to make me look ridiculous.

You've always promised to tell me

how you got it.

I fell off my bike.

Teeth through my lip.

Handle bars through my teeth.

All I remember is the bell

with a four-leaved clover on it.

Last thing I saw.

You smashed your teeth on

the handle bars and lost so much blood...

...that you lost consciousness.

- The blood was not from my mouth.

Now I want to stop talking about it.

Does it help if I feed you

some Easter egg?

The blood ran down my legs

into my socks and my shoes.

It covered the pedals. I'd lost litres

of blood before my teeth broke off.

Now I'm shutting up about it.

It sickens me every time.

I can imagine.

No, you can't imagine...

...young Albert Egberts

with your tutorials and your knowledge.

What makes me sick is not

that I nearly bled to death...

...but that I didn't bleed to death

in the end.

Tell me the whole story then.

If I told you the whole story,

you'd wish you had never heard it.

If only because the role

your mother played.

Now I do want to know.

When I got my bike back,

the bell cover was out of joint.

I couldn't ring my bicycle bell.

The top of the bell fell down a drain.

I tried to get it out with a magnet...

You don't mind if I touch you?

Go ahead if you must.

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