The Nightwalker: A Novel Read online

  For Manuela

  By a route obscure and lonely,

  Haunted by ill angels only,

  Where an Eidolon, named NIGHT,

  On a black throne reigns upright,

  I have wandered home but newly

  From this ultimate dim Thule.

  ‘Dream-Land’, Edgar Allan Poe

  Prologue

  The patient hadn’t even been on the ward for half an hour, and already he was causing trouble. Sister Susan had tasted it, almost as soon as the ambulance opened its doors and the stretcher was pushed out.

  She could always taste it when problems rolled into the psychiatric department. She would get this strange sensation in her mouth, as though she was chewing on aluminium foil. It could even be unleashed by patients who at first glance seemed more like victims and not aggressive in the slightest; much like the man who had just activated the alarm in Room 1310.

  And at five to eight, of all times.

  If he could just have waited another five minutes, Susan would have been on her break. Instead, she had to rush along the corridor on an empty stomach. Not that she had much of an appetite in the evenings anyway. She took great care not to gain weight, even though she wasn’t much bigger than some of the anorexia patients being treated on the ward. The tiny salad and half an egg were part of her evening routine – as was, admittedly, a paranoid schizophrenic with hallucinations, but she would have gladly relinquished the latter.

  The patient had been found lying naked in the snow outside a supermarket, covered in blood and with lacerations on his feet. He had appeared bedraggled, disorientated and dehydrated, but his gaze was alert and steady, his voice clear, and his teeth (teeth, as far as Susan was concerned, were always a sure indication of the state of the soul) showed no signs of alcohol, nicotine or substance abuse.

  And yet I could still taste it, she thought, with one hand on her bleeper and the other on her bunch of keys.

  Susan unlocked the door and entered the room.

  The scene before her was so bizarre that she stood in shock for a moment before pressing the bleeper to call the security team, who were trained especially for situations such as these.

  ‘I can prove it,’ screamed the naked man in front of the window. He was standing in a pool of vomit.

  ‘Of course you can,’ answered the sister, taking care to keep her distance.

  Her words sounded rehearsed rather than genuine, because Susan had indeed rehearsed them and didn’t intend them to be genuine, but in the past she had often been able to win time with empty platitudes.

  Not this time, though.

  Later, in its final report, the inquiry panel would establish that the cleaning woman had been listening to music on an MP3 player, something strictly forbidden during working hours. When her supervisor came by unexpectedly to do a hygiene check, she had hidden the device in the water meter cupboard next to the shower.

  But in the moment of crisis it was a mystery to Sister Susan how the patient had come into possession of the electronic device. He had ripped open its battery compartment and was holding a bent alkaline battery, which he must have chewed open with his teeth. Although Susan couldn’t actually see it, she pictured the viscous battery acid flowing over the edges like marmalade.

  ‘Everything’s going to be OK,’ she said, trying to placate him.

  ‘No, nothing’s going to be OK,’ the man protested. ‘Listen to me. I’m not crazy. I tried to throw up to get it out of my stomach, but maybe I’ve already digested it. Please. You have to take an X-ray. You have to X-ray my body. The proof is inside me!’

  He screamed and screamed until, eventually, the security team came in and restrained him.

  But they were too late. By the time the doctors rushed into the room, the patient had long since swallowed the battery.

  A few days before

  Somewhere in the world.

  In a town you know.

  Maybe even in your neighbourhood . . .

  1

  The cockroach was creeping towards Leon’s mouth.

  Just another few centimetres and its long feelers would touch his open lips. It had already reached the fleck of drool he had left on the bed-sheet in his sleep.

  Leon tried to close his mouth, but his muscles were paralysed.

  It’s happening again.

  He couldn’t get up, raise his hand or even blink. He had no choice but to stare at the cockroach, which was lifting up its wings as if extending some friendly greeting:

  Hello, Leon, I’m back. Don’t you recognise me?

  Yes, of course I do. I know exactly who you are.

  They had christened it Morphet, the gigantic cockroach from Reunion. He hadn’t realised that these repulsive things could actually fly. When they looked on the internet afterwards they found all these crazy discussion threads on the topic, and from that day on they were able to add their own unequivocal contribution: cockroaches from Réunion were certainly able to, and it must have been one of these flight-enabled specimens that Natalie had brought back from holiday nine months ago. The monstrosity must have crawled into her suitcase while she was packing, and when she opened the case back at home, Morphet had been sat there on her dirty washing, cleaning his feelers. Natalie hadn’t even had time to draw breath to scream before the cockroach flew off, hiding itself in some unreachable corner of the old building.

  They had searched everywhere. Every nook and cranny, of which there were many in the high-ceilinged rooms of their three-bedroom apartment: under the skirting boards, behind the washer-dryer in the bathroom, among Leon’s architectural models in his study – they even turned the dark room upside down, despite the fact that Natalie had sealed the door to her photography lab with light-excluding material and always kept it locked. But it was all in vain. The gigantic insect with its spider-like legs and bluebottle-coloured shell could not be found.

  On that first night Natalie seriously contemplated leaving the apartment they had moved into only a few months before.

  The apartment where we wanted to make a fresh start.

  Later, after having sex, they had laughingly reassured one another that Morphet was sure to have flown out of the window to the park, to discover that those of his kind in this town were a little smaller and less hairy than he was.

  But now he’s back.

  Morphet was so close now that Leon could smell him. Nonsense, of course, but his disgust at the cockroach was so great that Leon’s senses were playing tricks on him. He was even convinced he could make out on its hairy legs the faecal remains of the countless dust mites it had hoarded beneath the bed under the cloak of darkness. Its feelers still hadn’t made contact with Leon’s dry, open lips, but he already thought he could feel the tickling sensation. And he had a premonition of how it would feel when the cockroach crept into his mouth. It would be salty and scratchy, like popcorn when it clings to your palate.

  Then Morphet would slowly but surely force himself into Leon’s throat, bashing his wings against his teeth along the way.

  And I can’t even bite.

  Leon groaned, trying with all his might to scream.

  Sometimes it helped, but it usually took more than that to free himself from the sleep paralysis.

  He knew, of course, that the cockroach wasn’t real. It was early in the morning, a few days before New Year, and pitch black in the bedroom. It was physically impossible to see even his hand right in front of his face, but none of these certainties made the horror any more bearable. Because disgust, even at its most intense, is never material, but instead a psychological reaction to some external influence. Whether this influence is imagined or really exists makes no difference at all to how it feels.

  Natal
ie!

  Leon tried to scream his wife’s name, but failed miserably. Just as so many times before, he was imprisoned in a waking nightmare from which he couldn’t escape without help.

  People with ego weakness are particularly prone to sleep paralysis, Leon had once read in a popular psychology magazine, partly recognising himself in the article. Although he didn’t have an inferiority complex as such, he secretly saw himself as a ‘Yes, but’ person: yes, his dark hair was full and thick, but its numerous kinks ensured that he tended to look as though he had just fallen out of bed. Yes, his chin and its gently sloping V-shape might give his face an attractively masculine appearance, but his beard resembled that of a teenager. Yes, he had white teeth, but when he laughed too hard you could see that his fillings had paid for his dentist’s SUV. And yes, he was six feet tall, but seemed shorter on account of the fact that he never stood up straight. In brief: he wasn’t bad looking. But women who were looking for a good time, even though they may have given him a smile, never gave him their telephone numbers. They gave them to his best friend Sven instead, who had been blessed with a royal flush in the game of genetic poker: great hair, teeth, lips, a strong build . . . everything like Leon, except without the ‘but’.

  Natalie? Grunting, Leon tried to fight his way out of the paralysis. Please help me. Morphet is about to crawl across my tongue.

  He was taken aback by the unexpected sound coming from his mouth. Even when dreaming, he only ever spoke, grunted or cried out in his own, familiar voice. But the whimper he was hearing now sounded softer, higher. More like the voice of a woman.

  ‘Natalie?’

  All at once it became light in the room.

  Thank God.

  This time he had managed to free himself from the clutches of his nightmare without kicking and screaming. He knew that at some point in their life most people would suffer from the same thing, imprisoned in the shadowy world between sleeping and waking. A world you could only escape with the greatest strength of will. Or through some paradoxical disturbance from the outside. If someone turned on a bright light in the middle of the night, for example, or if loud music was playing, or if an alarm started or . . . if someone was crying?

  Leon pulled himself upright and blinked.

  ‘Natalie?’

  His wife was kneeling in front of the wardrobe opposite the bed with her back to him. She seemed to be looking for something among her shoes.

  ‘Sorry, sweetheart, did I wake you?’

  No response, just a long drawn-out sob. Natalie sighed, then the whimper quietened down.

  ‘Are you OK?’

  She silently pulled a pair of ankle boots from the cupboard and threw them into . . .

  . . . her suitcase?

  Leon flung back the blanket and got out of bed.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ He looked at the clock on his nightstand. It was only a quarter to seven. So early that not even the light in Natalie’s aquarium had come on.

  ‘Are you still angry?’

  They had argued repeatedly throughout the whole of the previous week, and two days ago things had escalated. Both of them were so busy at work that they could barely see straight. She had her first big photography exhibition looming, and he was preparing for the architecture pitch. Each had accused the other of neglect, and each thought their own commitments the most important.

  On Christmas Eve the word ‘divorce’ had been uttered for the first time, and even though neither of them meant it seriously, it was an alarming sign of how raw their nerves were. Yesterday Leon wanted to extend an olive branch by taking Natalie out for a reconciliation dinner, but she’d come home late from the gallery yet again.

  ‘Listen, I know we have our problems at the moment, but—’

  She spun round to face him and the sight of her hit him like a blow to the gut.

  ‘Natalie, what—’ He blinked, wondering if he could still be dreaming. ‘What the hell happened to your face?’

  The skin around her right eye was deep violet and her eyelids were swollen shut. She was dressed, but it looked like she had thrown everything on in a rush. The flower-patterned blouse with the ruffled sleeves was buttoned up unevenly, her trousers were missing the belt, and the laces of her high-heeled suede boots were flapping around loose.

  She turned away from him again. Moving awkwardly, she tried to close the suitcase, but it was too small for all the things she’d tried to cram into it. A red silk slip, a scarf and her favourite white skirt bulged out of the sides.

  Leon moved closer and went to pull her into his arms in a reassuring embrace, but Natalie flinched away in fear.

  ‘What’s wrong with you?’ he asked in confusion as she hastily reached for her suitcase. Four of her fingernails were painted a mud-like colour. The thumbnail was missing.

  ‘Jesus Christ, your thumb!’ cried Leon, trying to grab her injured hand. Then the sleeve of Natalie’s blouse slid upwards and he saw the cuts.

  From a razor blade?

  ‘For the love of God, Natalie. Have you started with that again?’

  ‘Me?’

  It was the first question he had asked that actually prompted an answer.

  In her gaze was a mix of bewilderment, fear and – the most confusing thing to Leon right now – pity. She had opened her lips by only a narrow slit, but it was enough to see that a large part of one of her front teeth was missing.

  ‘Me?’

  He froze in shock, and Natalie pulled herself free from his touch. She grabbed her mobile from the bed. Her good-luck charm swung from the smartphone, a pink artificial-pearl chain on which each bead was decorated with a letter from her name – Natalie’s name band, which had been fastened on to her wrist in the hospital the day she was born twenty-seven years ago. With her suitcase in the other hand, she rushed across the room.

  ‘Where are you going?’ he cried, but she was already half out the door. He tried to run into the hallway after her, but stumbled over a crate of building plans that he had been going to take into the office.

  ‘Natalie, please just explain to me . . .’

  She ran down the steps, not turning around to him even once.

  Later, in the days of horror that followed, Leon was no longer sure if it was his imagination or if his wife really had been dragging her right leg as she hurried to the door. Although it could equally have been because of the suitcase, or the fact that her shoes weren’t properly fastened.

  Once Leon had picked himself up again, she had disappeared into the ancient lift and had pulled the manual door across in front of her like a protective shield. The last thing he saw of his wife, the woman he had shared the last three years of his life with, was that horrified, fearful (and pitiful?) gaze: ‘Me?’

  The lift began to move. After standing there for an instant, frozen in shock, Leon ran to the stairs.

  The wide wooden steps, coiling their way downwards around the lift shaft like a snake, were covered with sisal carpet, the coarse fibres of which pricked the soles of his feet. Leon was wearing nothing but a loose pair of boxer shorts, which were threatening to slip down over his slim hips with every step he took.

  Taking several steps at a time, he reckoned he could reach the ground floor in time. Then old Ivana Helsing on the second floor opened her apartment door, admittedly only by a crack and without taking off the safety chain from the inside, but it was still enough to break Leon’s rhythm.

  ‘Alba, come back,’ he heard his neighbour calling out, but it was too late. The black cat had slipped out of the apartment into the stairway, running between his legs. So as not to fall flat on his face, he had to grab on to the handrail with both hands and bring himself to a halt.

  ‘Good God, Leon! What’s wrong?’

  He ignored the concerned voice of the elderly woman, who had now opened her door completely and stepped out. He pushed his way past.

  There was still time. He could hear the creaking of the lift’s wooden cabin and the crackling of the steel cable from wh
ich it was hanging.

  Arriving on the ground floor, he veered around the corner, slid across the smooth marble and ended up huddled on all fours, wheezing and panting, in front of the lift door. The cabin slowly sunk down to rest in its standby position.

  And then . . . nothing.

  No rattling or clattering, no sound at all to indicate someone was about to get out.

  ‘Natalie?’

  Leon took a deep breath, pulled himself to his feet and tried to peer through the colourful art nouveau stained-glass panes set into the door, but all he could see were shadows.

  So he opened the door from the outside. Only to find himself staring at his own reflection.

  The mirrored cabin was empty; Natalie had gone. Vanished.

  How was that possible?

  Leon looked around in search of help, and at that moment Dr Michael Tareski came into the empty hallway. The chemist – who lived above Leon on the fourth floor, never greeted him and always looked listless – was wearing a tracksuit and trainers instead of his usual blazer and white linen trousers. A glistening brow and dark flecks around the armpits of his sweatshirt betrayed the fact that he had just been for an early-morning run.

  ‘Have you seen Natalie?’ asked Leon.

  ‘Who?’

  Tareski’s wary gaze wandered from Leon’s naked torso down to his boxer shorts. Presumably the chemist was running through a mental list of the medication that could be responsible for his neighbour’s confused state. Either that, or the ones that could put him right again.

  ‘Oh, you mean your wife?’ Tareski turned away and went over to the mailboxes on the wall, which meant that Leon could no longer see his face as he replied: ‘She just left in a taxi.’

  Feeling dazed, Leon scrunched up his eyes as if blinded by the beam of a torch, then went past Tareski to the main door.

  ‘You’ll catch your death out there,’ the chemist warned him, and as Leon opened the door and stepped out on to the stone steps leading down to the pavement every muscle in his body cramped up in agreement. The building was in a reduced traffic zone in the old town, with lots of boutiques, restaurants, cafés, theatres and art-house cinemas like the Celeste, the malfunctioning neon sign of which was flickering on to the neighbouring house above Leon’s head in the early-dawn light.