Miranda sighed. It had only been one evening, but the house already seemed too empty without Graham there. She hoped he was having fun, and taking advantage of lots of opportunities. She had tried calling him the night before, but his phone apparently had no signal. Rather unusual, but she supposed he could have one night out with the lads. She quickly tried him again, just to be sure, but this time, it was engaged. Why was his phone engaged? Did he talk to anyone usually? Maybe it might be worth ringing round, seeing if anyone… and she caught herself. Why was she worrying so much? Because she didn’t want it to happen again. She’d been hurt before, and she was damned if another man was going to hurt her like that again.
But Graham wouldn’t hurt her like that, surely? She realised she was actually starting to panic. Quickly, she ran upstairs to her painting room, set out a spare canvas on a painting stand, then squeezed out a few colours of paint. And as the paintbrush dipped into the first shade of red, and glided across the palette, she felt herself calming down. She started bringing out the detail on the flames.

* * *

This journey, Graham thought, was supposed to be an enlightening journey of discovery. He was supposed to just get away from his old life, discover something new and exciting, and not just end up in a grubby student house. Life was full of surprises, and sometimes they weren’t nice ones.
“Ahhh mate, do you remember Dave smashing that pint glass round that chavvy cunt’s head in the Gardeners?” babbled the rather porky individual who Graham had spoken to on the phone. He apparently went by the name Pies, because of the volume of pork pies he ate. If you end up with a nickname at university, its not usually going to be a particularly complicated one.
“I don’t remember it, no.”
“Ahhh, well it was utter jokes. How about when you pissed on that car on the way back?”
“Once again, not a sausage.”
“Wouldn’t mind me a sausage sarnie. You hungry?”
“Nope, drunk as last night, remember?”
Pies sneered, as he eased himself up and into the kitchen. “Nyaa, you old people can’t handle your bevies.”
Once upon a time, there would have been a drink off just to make a point, but Graham was too old for that.
“You got my phone?”
“Yeah, its upstairs somewhere. Where’s those sausages? Do you remember…”
“No idea, can I get it?”
“Hang on, you mind the frying pan, I’ll find it.”
And the wobbling git stumbled upstairs, which audibly groaned.
Graham pensively pushed the sausages around the frying pan. The next problem was finding the docks, and finding his ferry. He had no idea where to go, no idea of the general geography of the area. Plus, he didn’t feel up to walking, even if he knew where the hell he was going. He couldn’t really afford to get a taxi, and… actually, maybe there was a simple solution to all this.
Pies eventually returned, heralded by a huge amount of stomping.
“Found it! It’s a shiny thing, innit?”
“Yes it is. I have to be setting off soon…”
“Ah yeah, you don’t want to stay for a pint or two?”
Graham’s insides, already offended by breakfast and sausage fumes, screamed in protest at the idea of more alcohol.
“No can do, but I need to ask two favours.”
“Sure man, sure!”
“One, how the hell do I get to the docks? I’m off to Rotterdam this afternoon, see…”
“Ah yeah! You said last night! Getting some quality ganja, I’ll bet!”
“You never know.”
“Well, you got to bring some back here, man!”
“I would, but at the moment, I’ve got no idea if I’m coming back. One of your lads able to give me a lift?”
“Well, after last nights performance, Dave should be happy to, just got to wake him up, is all.”
“And second, is there anywhere I can get a shitload of money very quickly round here?”
“Apart from bringing us back some draw?”
“Apart from that, yes.”
“Hmm, don’t know, bruv. Let me wake up Dave, get you to the docks.”
And once again, he went stomping up the stairs. Graham sighed again. This could be difficult, and he didn’t mean just getting money. The fat bastard was starting to get annoying, and annoying seemed to be a recurring theme in Graham’s life at the moment.

Dave had been just about alive, and had agreed to drive Graham to the docks in the afternoon. He also had a few ideas about money.
“Lissen man,” he hissed in a hungover sort of hiss, “my cousin spent his gap year in Holland. Don’t know why, but there you go. He found some work with this, erm, courier business, and they’re always looking for people. I’ll give him a bell, get a number for you. They sorted him out for the whole year. Hang on.” He then whipped out his phone, dialled a number, and hissed his way through a conversation.
“Right, he’s got the number, but he’s warned you it probably won’t be anything legal.”
“Fair enough, not ideal, but I’m kinda desperate here.”
“Also, some of the assignments… didn’t make much sense.”
“Once again, no room to complain. What’s the number?”
“Here you are. Get them talking in English and tell them you’re a friend of The Englishman.”
Tapping a Dutch number into his phone, Graham breathed a sigh, of confused relief and annoyance. It looked like he was sorting out his money problems, only to get different problems in exchange. He wracked his memory for what little Dutch he knew.

“Hallo, Het huis van Harold’s van vissen, hoe kunnen wij u helpen?”
“Hallo, ooo sprecked Engels?”
“Eh… yes, can I help you?”
“Hello, I’m asking about courier jobs, I’m… a friend of The Englishman?”
“Hurrah! He was much helpful when he was here. So you want to carry things for us, yes?”
“That’s right.”
“Where are you at the moment, my friend?”
“Well, I’m coming over to Rotterdam this afternoon, and I’m leaving from Hull…”
“Are you? That’s unbelievable! Your timing couldn’t be better, we need something taking over from Hull. It needs to come to Amsterdam, but I daresay you can travel. You know where the… Weatherspoons pub is?”
“Not really, but I’m with people who can point…” he quickly realised he had not only been there last night, but walked past it on the way to this house. “Oh yes, I know where it is now.
“There’s a shop selling marijuana products across the road, by the antiques shop. Go in there, and ask for a bag of fish.”
“A bag of fish?”
“Yes. He will give you the goods you need to transport, tell you where to take them, and give you a down payment for transport fees. You will bring it to the address he gives you within three days. Then you will receive payment.”
“Willdo. Thank you very much.”
“Oh yes, one quick thing, friend of The Englishman, normally we wouldn’t just give some random Engels a job without meeting him, but a lack of time and your friends reputation means we can’t use our normal… procedures. But if you lose this package, or take it anywhere but here… we will find you, grind you up and smoke your karkas. Begrijp?”
“I don’t know what begrijp means, but I understand the rest of it.”
“That’s all I needed. Tot ziens.”
And then the phone went dead.

The Weatherspoons pub was just down the road from where he was, and there was indeed a poky little head shop nearly opposite it, next to an antiques shop. Dust seemed to cover many surfaces. A few weed growing tools were scattered around, and a selection of bongs sat in the window, from basic clear plastic ones to elaborate ceramic ones in the shape of skulls or Rastafarians. An emaciated man sat by the counter, giving him a somewhat dirty look.
“Erm… hello, I’d like a bag of fish, please.”
“You’re a bit different to the normal couriers.”
“Apparently, I just came along at the right time.”
“Right, hang on then, let me find the package.”
The man then rummaged around behind the counter, and produced a package in a brown paper bag, and a stack of Euro notes.
“You will take this, and at 5 in the afternoon in three days time, wait by the roundabout for the road going through Rembrandt Park. A man will come up to you, and ask if you had halibut for dinner. You will tell him that you pickled the vicar. Do as he says.”
“Is it really a bag of fish?”
The man crossed his arms, and gave him a look most commonly used on idiots.
“What do you think?”
Apparently not then.

“So he sorted you out then?”
“Yeah, although I’m not sure what exactly it is.”
Graham was back in the grubby living room with Pies, the package sitting on the table looking thoroughly sinister. They were staring at it like it was a disembodied hand.
“Hey, maybe its a disembodied hand!” cried Pies.
“Why would they pay me to carry a hand into Holland?”
“Maybe they thought it’d be fun?”
“Why would they pay me to carry a hand into Holland for the fun of it?”
“Well I don’t know! Its not like you’re going to be smuggling drugs into Holland, is it?”
“Well, it doesn’t matter now, since they’ve threatened to kill me if I don’t take it, and even if they hadn’t, I can’t afford not to.”
The atmosphere would have been tense and fraught, if Pies was capable of being anything but sluggishly excited about everything.
“Well, now you’ve got to come back, intcha!”
“How do you reckon that?”
“Well, you’ve got to tell us what it is, haven’t you!”
“No promises, but if I ever come back, I’ll let you know.”
“Wicked, man! Fancy a pint yet?”
“No, not really.”
Pfah, old git.”
“Where’s Dave?” It wasn’t too late, but after the other night, Graham wasn’t in the mood for leaving anything to chance.
“He’ll be up and about, old man.”
“I’m not that old.”
“Yeah you are, now lets get Dave then.”

Dave had a crappy 1994 Ford Fiesta, and was quite surprised he could fit into it. For some reason, he was shoved into the back of it, and discovered that Dave had apparently put all his car money into buying the sort of speakers you normally encountered at rock festivals. And when they pulled off, the sheer volume was terrifying. Literally. Graham’s vision immediately blurred, and his ears started popping. He did, however, get a wonderful back massage from the seat vibrating underneath him. Overall, he got the impression that the sound quality was optimised for someone three cars back, and was very happy when they finally got to the docks. His ears were ringing, and the last time that had happened was when he’d spent an entire night by a speaker at a rave back in the old days.