Delivering Caliban

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The woman in the beret looked back over her shoulder and John Purkiss registered two things simultaneously.

She was blonde and attractive.

And she was his dead fiancée.

He felt the familiar surge in his chest propelling him forwards, as though he was connected physically with her and needed to be in direct contact with her. Countering this was a voice that screamed in his mind, told him to get a grip.

Purkiss stepped on to the road and wove between the trams and the clangour of the bicycle bells. Amsterdam was a gentle bustle of primitive transport around him, seeming to wash around him like a stream around a rock. He disregarded it, eyes fixed on the woman who had turned away again and was striding with purpose in the direction of the Central Station. Claire wore a mauve beret perched at an angle above her short fair hair, a suede coat tight across her shoulders. He didn’t recognise the clothes, but the gait was hers, there was no question about that: taut, fast, sexy.

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