Ides' Heaven

Chapter One / Between Shores

Maresdoep Strait
21st of November, 1971
Sunday, 11:02

The morning ferry was hurtling towards the port of Lachlijn at twenty one knots. It was the tail end of a brutally cold November; fog lay so thick over the water that the Faursian shoreline was barely visible, save for the bright lights of the port cutting weakly through it. Among the passengers were Faursians returning from holiday, football fans, ordinary civilians, perhaps even soldiers coming back from leave. The third class compartments were the most crowded, packed with people from all walks of life, many wearing tired faces and heavy eyes, chilled to the bone.

On the upper, open deck of the ferry stood a lone man, leaning over an ice cold, rusting metal railing, travelling light. The railing was worn from years of back and forth journeys, eaten by salt water and weather, yet to him it was simply somewhere to stand and look from.

His hair was thick and dark, worn longer than most men preferred, falling in heavy waves around his ears and brushing the collar of his coat. The front was pushed back from his forehead, though the wind had already begun to tear it loose again. He was plainly dressed, wearing casual suit trousers, with brown, leather shoes. He wore a thick, black overcoat, with the lapels folded upwards, shielding his neck. He wore a pair of half rimmed glasses, reminiscent of aviator sunglasses, except these seemed to be prescription, rather than fashion. His eyes, behind the transparent lenses, were a dark brown, with noticeable dark bags hung below them. It gave the man a piercing gaze. He had a thick, yet well kept moustache, which seemed to accentuate his facial features. His nose was broad and had been broken before and he had prominent cheek bones. His lips, thin, were sat in a permanent, insolent frown. His forehead was high and well formed, however, most noteworthy, was a prominent scar that streaked down the left side of his face, cutting through his eyebrow, down his cheek and settling on his jawline. In general, the man was stocky and well built, of average height, around thirty-five.

The man raised a black gloved hand to his lips and took a long draw from his cigarette, holding the smoke in for a moment as he gazed out towards the clouded shoreline. Glancing at his left wrist, he checked his watch; 11:03.

Against the howling wind, he heard footsteps behind him. He had assumed he was the only one stupid enough to be out on deck in this weather, but perhaps he was wrong.

“Chilly, huh?” The man behind him said as he approached. He was older, considerably less intimidating than the man he was approaching. He spoke with a thick southern Faursian accent, prompting a glance of the head from the man with the cigarette.

This man was mid-forties, perhaps early fifties, taller, lanky. His short, thinning hair, once black, was now greying, was obscured by a woollen hat. His face was clean shaven and he wore a trench coat, with casual trousers and bulky black boots. His face was gaunt and uneven, his cheekbones sunken, his small, blue eyes were dull and unimaginative. His hands were deep in his coat pockets, his shoulders raised, as if he had tucked his neck downwards. His complexion was sickly and pale, only exacerbated by his weak jawline and a chin that seemed to recede inwards. The man turned away once more, raising the cigarette to his mouth.

“‘Tis, yeah.” He said, before taking a draw. The lanky man wandered and perched himself next to him on the railing. His accent was strange. It was Faursian, perhaps southern, yet had a strange, unintelligible sound to it, almost making it sound uneven, uncertain.

“That’s a strange accent you have. Where are you from?”

“Marningen.” He replied bluntly, his face turned away from the man.

“Ah, a Highlands man, are you? You don’t sound like it.”

“Well, I am. And you? You sound southern.”

“I am, sir, I am. My name’s Hauke.”

“Nice.” The man replied with an irritated sigh, as he took another prolonged draw from his cigarette, which was by now, nearing the filter.

“Well… what’s yours?”

“Lourens.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Lourens.” Hauke smiled, offering his outstretched hand. Lourens eyed him, first his hand, then his eyes. He flicked the cigarette into the wind and removed a glove from his right hand and shook Hauke’s hand firmly, before replacing his glove. "Kinne jo Faurzjeske prate?"*

"Sûnt ik prate koe."* Lourens replied.

There was a brief silence.

“What’re you doing here, anyway? You’re far from home.” Hauke asked, switching back to Aubervijan, a slight hint of something in his voice that Lourens couldn’t pick apart.

“Travel.” Lourens replied, with utmost impatience.

“Touring, eh? Where’d you go?” Hauke instinctively asked once more, mere moments after the reply.

“What’s with all the fucking questions?” Lourens snapped, pushing himself off the railing and turning to face Hauke. “You don’t know me.”

“That’s the point.” Hauke smiled wryly.

“Well, fuck off, will you?”

“And there’s that Highland hospitality I’ve heard so, so much about.” Hauke prodded, sarcastic as ever.

Lourens licked his lips, tasting salt. He considered launching the man overboard, if only briefly, before he turned away, walking towards a doorway which would lead back into the ship itself; his steps deliberate, not scared, but certain.

“Enjoy Lachlijn, Lourens. Not many Highlanders pass through there anymore. You’re lucky, you.” Hauke called out, cocky, confident. Lourens grit his teeth, as he proceeded into the ship stairwell, descending level after level before proceeding into the third class compartments, where he made his way through the crowd.

He weaved his way through the dense masses of people; men, women, children, rowdy teenagers, football hooligans, elderly. There was a horrible, collective racket that filled the tightly packed space; constant voices, shouting, drinking, children and babies crying and coughing. Shops littered the sides of the accommodation, selling beauty and health products, souvenirs, food, duty free alcohol and tobacco products, among other things. Lourens instinctively weaved his way into a shop, breezing past the entrance and cutting across the shopfloor, exiting through an entrance on the opposite side of the shop, before making his way to an alternate stairwell, descending to the lowest deck, which was jam packed with even more people. There were no shops here, no bright lights or advertisements; no false comforts of any kind. This was the lowest of the low, in both sense and spirit.

Lourens noticed the sound first; worse than the deck above. Next, the humidity, hitting him like a wave that could only be described as thick, close and foul. The stench of sweat, tobacco smoke, alcohol, damp clothing and cheap aftershaves hung heavily in the air. The interior wasn’t even worse; in fact, it was nearly identical to the deck above. Still, pausing on the stairwell, he could see, as far as the accommodation stretched, rows and rows of people, almost shoulder to shoulder. You were lucky to get a seat against a wall at this level, nevermind a wooden chair with a cushion. He made his way down, nevertheless, immediately bumping into a careless drunk, who turned the corner to ascend the stairs. The drunk mumbled something, slurring; Lourens didn’t slow, barely even glanced at him. He paused, looking around. Satisfied, he began to survey people close to him. Faces, hands, tattoos, scars; details. His eyes moved quickly, but not conspicuously. He spotted a man standing near the bulkhead, deep, in rowdy conversation with a group of others. He caught the glint of a signet ring. Lourens drifted closer, subtly. As the man raised his hand again, taking a draw from a cigarette, the engraving became visible: sharp and unmistakable; a stylised emblem, scratched into the no doubt fake gold.

The symbol of the Radikale Lânbesetting.

Anarcho-leftist. A paramilitary organisation, one of dozens in Faursia. This particular group was composed of rural insurgents turned underground extremists. Perhaps this man was a true believer, or just a hanger on. Perhaps, even, just a pretender, boasting to the company he kept about false operations and romanticised killings. Either way, Lourens took a mental note of him, his face, his friends. Carefully.

This was the sort of company he was now among.

The ferry’s engines began to churn more slowly, their rhythmic hum descending into a dull groan as the vessel neared port. The tannoy crackled once, then again, before a distorted voice announced their arrival in both Aubervijan and Faursian. The words were flat, automated. Lourens didn’t hear them. He felt the shift in momentum instead, a subtle forward lurch, the soft metal shudder beneath his feet. A moment of stillness passed before the noise of movement overtook the ship: boots, bags, murmurs, children crying again, raised voices calling for luggage.

He moved quickly, blending with the throng pushing toward the exits. The lowest deck was the last to disembark. No ceremony, no queueing, only pressure, human current, like blood through a vein. He kept his head down, his breath shallow. At one point, someone bumped into him; no apology. Another stepped on the heel of his shoe. Still no reaction. He let himself be swept forward with the tide, blinking as the overhead lights gave way to the dirty morning fog spilling through the open hatch.

The smell hit him first. Not sea air, but oil, salt, piss, fish and diesel fumes, or in other words, Lachlijn.

A loud clang rang through the steel underbelly of the ferry, followed by the piercing screech of brakes and the hiss of compressed air. A lorry was reversing down the cargo ramp, its flashing amber lights barely cutting through the thick November fog that clung to everything like smoke. A long queue of vehicles waited behind it in silence, their engines ticking and grumbling low. The entire ferry creaked and groaned as it adjusted to the weight and movement, steel frames flexing with tired familiarity.

Overhead, metal gantries loomed through the haze, dimly lit by flickering sodium bulbs. Occasionally, a gust of wind would push aside just enough fog to reveal the looming structure of Lachlijn Port, sprawled before them like a rusting carcass. Concrete watchtowers, blocky and featureless, sat along the perimeter fencing. Floodlights panned lazily across the dock, carving out shapes in the mist half illuminated cranes, idle containers, soldiers with rifles slung over their shoulders.

Lourens stood in the shadows beside a refrigerated transport van, his posture relaxed but alert. The smell of brine and diesel drifted up from the water below. He adjusted his lapel, pulling it higher over the scar that slashed down his face. Behind his glasses, his eyes scanned the checkpoint just ahead; a makeshift customs station, cobbled together with prefab booths, canvas shelters and a portable metal detector. The line of foot passengers was sluggish, burdened by suitcases, paper bags and noise.

Just ahead of the checkpoint, a sniffer dog was being walked in slow, deliberate circles by an Aubervijan soldier, its handler silent and sharp eyed. The dog, black coated, low to the ground, sniffed luggage, boots, pockets. Occasionally, it paused, tail stiffening. No one spoke. Nearby, a teenager, perhaps eighteen or nineteen, was pulled from the line without a word, his shoulder seized by a customs officer. His bag was taken and carried toward a canvas tent at the side of the checkpoint. Inside, a folding table and two plastic chairs sat under dim lamplight. The tent flap closed behind them with a low snap.

Lourens flicked his cigarette into a gutter puddle and fell into line.

As he stepped forward, he could hear snippets of interrogation ahead; curt questions, mumbled answers, the occasional cough. The Faursian officers didn’t raise their voices. They barely even looked at the travellers. But they had military issued forms, clearance stamps and orders and that was enough to make the air tight with pressure.

The customs officers were Faursian and unmistakably so. Their uniforms bore the blue and grey insignia of the Civil Security Service, but each man wore an expression as if shackled by invisible chains. They were pale, tired looking, with visibly damp collars and eyes that didn’t meet anyone else’s for long. Just behind them, within a raised platform cabin, sat two Aubervijan soldiers, motionless, arms folded, rifles clipped to their chests. They weren’t checking documents; they were checking faces.

One officer, early thirties, thinning hair, hollow cheeks, glanced up as Lourens approached. He gave a weak gesture toward the booth. “Name and purpose of travel?”

“Lourens Fisser,” he replied smoothly, handing over a small, creased ID booklet. “Returning home.”

The officer’s eyes twitched briefly to the scar. He then gestured at his own cheek with two fingers. “Some cut you got there.”

“Cats.” Lourens said, his eyes never leaving the officer’s face.

The officer hesitated for the slightest of moments, then blinked, as if tucking the thought away. “Where have you come from?”

“Hasselt.” Lourens replied bluntly.

“Why were you there?” The officer asked, his eyes narrowing slightly.

“Visiting family.”

“Okay.” The officer said, adjusting his stance. “Do you have anything on your person that could harm me or any other individual?”

“No.”

As if to a beat, the officer flipped through the pages, glancing once at Lourens, once again at the forms. Then, without lifting his eyes, he leaned slightly back. Behind him, one of the soldiers had stepped from his perch, now watching the line from behind tinted goggles. The customs officer stiffened slightly, then returned the booklet with a dull stamp. “Next.”

Lourens nodded once, tucked the booklet inside his coat and moved on.

As he walked past the checkpoint and into the port proper, the concrete underfoot was slick with sea mist and the wind carried a distant hum of engines, shouting and radios. A shipping container was being dragged across a loading bay, chains clattering against the ground. Floodlights cut thin beams through the fog like weapons searching for their target. Soldiers watched from a gantry overhead, unmoving.

Across the yard, a waiting minibus idled beneath a flickering light, marked only with an old transport permit laminated in plastic and stuck to the windshield.

He headed for it without looking back.

---

* "Do you speak Faursian?"

* "Since I could speak."

Chapter 2 / Southbound

Lachlijn, Faursian Highlands
21st of November, 1971
Sunday, 11:47

The minibus smelled of damp fabric and stale tobacco. Its engine rattled impatiently beneath the bonnet as passengers climbed aboard one by one, their boots clattering against the metal step. Inside, the windows were already fogged over from the breath of those seated within, their silhouettes barely visible through the condensation. Lourens stepped in without a word, ducking his head beneath the low doorframe before sliding into a seat near the back. The interior was cramped and poorly lit, the seats mottled with mould. Lourens checked his watch; 11:47. Not bad time.

The minibus door slammed shut with a dull metallic thud. A moment later the driver’s silhouette shifted behind the fogged windscreen and the engine growled slightly louder, vibrating through the thin metal frame of the vehicle. No one spoke. The passengers sat in that quiet, uncomfortable stillness common to public transport; strangers pressed into close quarters, pretending not to notice one another.

Lourens rested his forearms on his knees and glanced slowly around the interior. There were perhaps twelve passengers in total. A dock worker sat near the front, his heavy coat smelling faintly of fish and brine. Across the aisle from Lourens was a young man with a satchel wedged between his boots, staring down at his hands, as if counting the lines on his palms. An elderly woman clutched two shopping bags tightly against her chest, her eyes fixated on the fogged window beside her.

Two men sat further forward, shoulders angled slightly towards each other but not speaking. They wore identical dark coats and heavy boots, their posture relaxed in that deliberate way of men who, like Lourens, were very much aware of their surroundings. One of them glanced briefly towards the back of the bus. His eyes met Lourens’ for a fraction of a second. Recognition flickered there, faint but unmistakable. The man looked away immediately, adjusting his sleeve as if nothing had happened.

Lourens said nothing. He simply leaned back into his seat and watched the condensation slowly creep across the glass.

The engine coughed once before the minibus lurched forward, tyres grinding softly against the damp concrete of the loading bay. Outside, the fog shifted in slow waves as the vehicle crept out from beneath the floodlit gantries of the port.

For several minutes the passengers remained silent. Then, a voice came from the seat beside him.

“You came in on the ferry.”

Lourens didn’t look up immediately. He already knew who it was; the young man with the satchel. His accent wasn’t local to Lachlijn, instead southern and thick.

“Looks that way.” Lourens replied without lifting his head.

The young man shifted slightly in his seat, glancing toward the front of the bus, before leaning closer to Lourens and lowering his voice. “They said you weren’t due back ‘till next week.”

Lourens finally turned his head. “Plans change.”

The young man studied him for a moment, his eyes lingering briefly on the scar that ran down the side of his face. “S’pose they do.”

Neither of them spoke for a while. Before long, the minibus rolled out onto the main road. Lachlijn slowly emerged from the fog as they drove; rows of concrete apartment blocks streaked with damp, shuttered warehouses and rusting cranes rising above the rooftops like skeletal towers. Here and there the walls were painted with slogans and crude murals, their colours dulled by years of weather and smoke.

At the first intersection, a pair of armoured vehicles sat beside a checkpoint barrier. Aubervijan soldiers stood nearby, rifles slung loosely across their chests as they watched the traffic crawl past.

No one inside the minibus looked at them.

The minibus slowed as it approached the barrier. One of the soldiers glanced toward the windscreen, his expression unreadable beneath the brim of his helmet. The driver lifted a hand in a half hearted gesture of acknowledgement and rolled forward without stopping. A moment later, the checkpoint disappeared behind them, swallowed again by the fog.

Inside the bus, the silence still hung heavy.

Lourens watched as the buildings slid past through the misted glass. Rows of narrow terraces leaned towards the road, their brickwork darkened by years of weather and sea air. Laundry hung limp between windows and above shuttered shopfronts. On one wall a faded mural showed a masked man brandishing a semi-automatic rifle, his skin covered with the colours of the Faursian flag. The paint was cracked and peeling beneath layers of newer slogans.

The young man cleared his throat quietly. “You hear about the trouble?” He said, low and careful.

Lourens didn’t turn. “What trouble?”

A short pause followed, then the reply came. “Someone’s been talking.”

“Someone’s always talking, fuckwit.”

“Not like this, they're not,” the young man replied. “Some of the lads are buzzing about it.”

Lourens shifted his back uncomfortably against the seat, his eyes still fixated on the fogged window. “When are they not buzzing about something, huh? Last I heard they were buzzing about that blonde.”

“Yeah”, the young man said quietly. “Well, this time it’s different.”

Lourens snorted softly. “You’re making it different.”

“No, I’m not,” the young man hissed, his tone a little sharper. “Committee is.”

Lourens’ eyes dropped from the window. For the first time he inclined his head slightly, meeting the young man’s gaze. The look held for a moment longer than was comfortable. Then the young man glanced away.

“Anyway,” he muttered, rubbing a thumb along the strap of his satchel. “Not my problem.”

“Usually isn’t.” Lourens said, a hint of judgement hidden amidst his flat tone as his gaze returned to the window.

The bus rattled onward in silence for a little while. A few passengers shifted in their seats as the vehicle lurched through a bend in the road. Somewhere near the front someone coughed, the sound dry and hollow in the heavy air. Gradually the streets began to widen. The driver slowed as they passed beneath a low iron railway bridge streaked black with soot and rainwater. Beyond it, the road opened into a broader square crowded with delivery vans, taxis and a scattering of pedestrians moving briskly through the cold.

The young man beside him rose from his seat. “This is me.”

Lourens didn’t respond. He simply shifted his leg to let the man pass. The minibus rolled to a halt beside a long, dim platform shelter. The door wheezed open with a hiss.

Cold air spilled into the bus as a handful of passengers stood and shuffled towards the exit, their boots thudding softly against the metal floor. The young man stepped down first without another word, disappearing quickly into the fog that clung to the platform. Lourens remained seated for a moment longer. Through the smeared glass he could make out the dim outline of the station building across the street; a squat brick structure beneath a sagging iron canopy, its windows glowing faintly yellow in the early afternoon light. Somewhere further down the platform, a locomotive idled, its low mechanical rumbling vibrating faintly through the rails.

Eventually, Lourens stood. The aisle was narrow and crowded with damp coats and bags as the remaining passengers filed out. Lourens stepped down onto the platform last, the cold air biting immediately at his face. The minibus door clattered shut behind him and the vehicle pulled away, its engine fading quickly into the surrounding traffic. For a moment, he simply stood there. Then, he reached into his coat pocket, producing a cigarette and struck a match against the sole of his boot.

Lourens took a long drag from the cigarette. Across the platform, a departure board clicked softly as its numbers shifted. The next train south was due in twelve minutes. He exhaled slowly and watched the smoke drift upward above the tracks.

Chapter Three / City by the Hill

Eemshaven, Faursian Lowlands
21st of November, 1971
Sunday, 21:10

The train eased into Eemshaven Central with a long, metallic sigh, its brakes screeching softly against the rails as it rolled beneath the glass canopy of the station. After nearly nine hours on the line, the carriage had grown quiet; most of the passengers had fallen into the dull, half sleep that usually accompanies a long journey. When the train finally stopped, the doors opened with a hiss and a wave of cold, southern coastal air drifted in through the compartment.

Lourens stepped down onto the platform with the others, the stiffness in his legs reminding him of how long he had been sitting. The station lights cast a dull, orange glow over the concrete, their reflections shimmering faintly across the rails. Somewhere further down the platform, a porter pushed a trolley stacked with luggage, its wheels rattling loudly in the quiet.

For a moment he simply stood there. The air smelled faintly of sea salt and damp stone, carried in from the southern harbour somewhere beyond the station. It wasn’t unpleasant. Just familiar. He dug a hand into his pocket and pulled out a cigarette, pursing it between his lips as he struck a match. He hadn’t had one since Ljouwerum.

Around him the passengers dispersed quickly, most moving toward the station exit with the silent urgency of people who knew better than to linger in public after dark. A handful of men in heavy coats remained near the far end of the platform, speaking quietly amongst themselves.

Lourens folded the lapels of his coat up over his neck and began walking.

The station itself was much larger than that of Lachlijn’s, but older, its iron beams blackened by decades of smoke and exposure to the elements. Posters clung to the brick walls in layers - political slogans, recruitment notices, advertisements for concerts and football matches. Some had been torn away, revealing older messages and graffiti beneath them.

Near the exit a pair of soldiers stood beside a sandbagged police booth, rifles in hand, held close to their torsos. They weren’t stopping anyone, only watching the slow stream of passengers as they passed through the turnstiles.

Outside, Eemshaven stretched out beneath a low ceiling of clouds. Traffic moved steadily along the main road in front of the station - buses, taxis, delivery lorries, cars - their headlights cutting pale streaks through the evening air. In the distance, beyond the rows of buildings, the faint glow of dockyard floodlights hung above the harbour.

Lourens paused at the top of the station steps as he took a long drag from his cigarette. For a moment, he simply watched. He was home. He exhaled slowly, the smoke drifting upwards into the cold evening air before being carried away by the wind drifting in from the harbour. For a moment longer, he remained where he stood, then started down the steps.

The pavement outside the station was damp, reflecting the glow of the streetlights in broken streaks of orange. People moved quickly along the pavements, collars raised against the cold, most keeping their heads down as they passed one another. A bus rumbled past the junction, its windows fogged up from the breath of the passengers inside.

Across the road a row of shops sat beneath dim neon signs - a tobacconist, a cafe, a bookmaker’s. Several of their windows were protected by metal shutters that had been lowered for the night. On the brick wall beside them, someone had painted a sentence in thick white letters. The paint was fresh.


Lourens slowed slightly as he passed it, glancing at the words without turning his head. He kept walking.

The street sloped gently away from the station, descending toward the older districts nearer the harbour. Traffic flowed steadily through the intersection ahead, headlights reflecting across the damp asphalt. Somewhere down the road, a police siren rose briefly, before fading again into the distance. Lourens drew slowly from his cigarette as he walked. The city hadn’t changed much since he’d last been here. The same narrow shopfronts, the same brick terraces climbing the hills beyond the docks. Even the posters on the walls looked familiar, layered over one another in thick paper skins that peeled back at the corners.

A group of young men stood outside a corner pub further down the street, their voices carrying loudly across the street. One of them glanced toward Lourens as he passed, then returned to whatever argument had been occupying them. Further along, a military lorry sat parked beside the curb beneath a broken streetlight. Two soldiers leaned against the vehicle, smoking, their rifles resting against the door of the cab. Neither of them paid Lourens any attention. He passed them, without slowing.

The cigarette had burned almost to the filter by the time he reached the next intersection. After a short but firm drag, he flicked it into the gutter and watched it vanish into the shallow stream of rainwater running along the curb. The streets grew quieter the further he moved. The traffic thinned quickly, leaving only the occasional car passing through the junctions, its tyres hissing softly against the road. Most of the shops had long since closed for the night. A few cafes and bars still showed light behind their curtains, though the conversations inside them were muted.

Lourens kept his pace steady. He passed beneath a row of streetlamps that cast dull halos across the pavement, each one briefly illuminating the scar that cut down the side of his face before the darkness swallowed it again. Further along the road, the buildings began to climb slightly, the terraces rising with the slope of the hill that overlooked the harbour. From here he could see the dockyard lights in the distance, growing brighter above the rooftops, like a second horizon.

An armoured police vehicle rolled slowly into the far end of the street, its headlights sweeping across houses as it turned in from the junction. The sudden glare caught Lourens in the eyes and he squinted slightly, his hands tightening in the pockets of his coat.

The engine idled low as the vehicle crept forward through the mist, its tyres hissing faintly over the road. Lourens kept walking.

The vehicle slowed as it drew alongside him.

“Evening.” One of the officers said, leaning out of the passenger window. “Bit late to be out, isn’t it?”

Lourens stopped, his hands still in his pockets. “Not late enough if you lot are still out.” Lourens said with a faint chuckle.

“Very funny.” The officer replied dryly. “Where you headed?”

“Home.”

The officer studied him for a moment beneath the yellow streetlight, his eyes lingering on the scar across his face. Then, he nodded once. “Right then. Off you go.”

Lourens dropped his head a little and stepped past the vehicle. The window slid shut and the vehicle pulled away. The headlights swept across the brick walls once more as it moved down the street, before disappearing around the corner.

Lourens stood for a moment, watching the red tail lights disappear into the night. Then he kept walking.

The street climbed gradually as he moved further uphill, the houses narrowing and pressing closer together. A few windows were lit behind drawn curtains, but most of the terraces sat dark and quiet. Somewhere further off, a dog barked once before falling silent again.

After a few minutes he reached the top of the hill. His building stood halfway across the terrace, a narrow brick structure wedged between two identical houses. The paint on the doorframe had long since peeled away, exposing grey wood underneath.

Home.

Lourens dug a hand into his pocket and pulled out a small ring of keys. The metal scraped softly in the lock as he turned it. The door then opened with a faint creak.

Inside, the flat was cold and dark. He stepped through the doorway and closed it gently behind him, the latch clicking into place. He turned the key once more, locking the door shut. Then, he stood still, listening.

The building was silent. Somewhere upstairs a pipe rattled faintly in the walls. Otherwise, nothing. Satisfied, Lourens reached for the switch beside the door. A weak yellow bulb flickered to life in the narrow hallway.

The flat was small. A bedroom, a living room, a bathroom and a kitchen. The bare minimum of space for a man to live in - though not comfortably. A coat rack hung beside the door, cluttered with old jackets and scarves. The wallpaper had begun to peel away in long strips along the corners of the ceiling.

He shrugged off his coat and hung it on the rack. The smell of stale tobacco emanated from the coats as he moved past them, stepping into the living room and dropping into the armchair beside the window. A small table stood beside it, cluttered with papers, cigarette butts and a half empty glass.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out another cigarette. The match flared briefly in the dim room. He sat there, staring up at the smoke as it curled toward the ceiling.

Home.