Therapy Read online

  Sebastian Fitzek has worked as a journalist and author for radio and TV stations all around Europe, and is now head of programming at RTL, Berlin's leading radio station. His first and subsequent novels have become huge bestsellers in Germany, and he is currently working on his fifth.

  Also by Sebastian Fitzek

  SPLINTER

  THE EYE COLLECTOR

  First published in the English language in 2008 by Pan Books.

  This paperback edition published in Great Britain in 2014 by Corvus, an imprint of Atlantic Books Ltd.

  Originally published in Germany as Die Therapie in 2006

  by Knaur Taschenbuch.

  The book has been negotiated through AVA international

  GmbH, Germany (www.ava-international.de).

  Copyright © Droemersche Verlagsanstalt Th. Knaur Nachf. GmbH & Co. KG, Munich, Germany, 2006

  The moral right of Sebastian Fitzek to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities, is entirely coincidental.

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  Paperback ISBN: 978 0 85789 707 7

  E-book ISBN: 978 1 78239 209 5

  Printed in Great Britain.

  Corvus

  An imprint of Atlantic Books Ltd

  Ormond House

  26–27 Boswell Street

  London

  WC1N 3JZ

  www.corvus-books.co.uk

  www.sebastianfitzek.de

  For Tanja Howarth

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  Prologue

  As the thirtieth minute ticked by, he knew he would never see his daughter again. Josephine had opened the door, glanced round briefly and slipped inside the old man's office. At twelve years old, his baby girl was gone forever. He knew it with dreadful certainty. There would be no more smiles as he scooped her up and carried her to bed; no more waiting for her to fall asleep so he could switch off her bedside lamp; no more waking in the night, shaken from his dreams by her agonized screams.

  The realization was devastating and sudden, hitting him with the force of a speeding truck.

  Viktor Larenz stood up clumsily, but his legs seemed to cling to the seat, warning him not to rely on their support. He imagined himself toppling to the scuffed wooden floor and lying prone in the waiting room, slotted between the plump housewife with psoriasis and the coffee table piled high with ancient magazines. He felt like fainting, but even that small mercy was denied him. His mind was still alert.

  Patients will be seen according to the SERIOUSNESS of their condition, NOT in order of arrival.

  He stared at the padded leather door, the lettering on the sign swimming before his eyes.

  Dr Grohlke, an allergy specialist, was a family friend and the twenty-second doctor on Viktor's list. So far, twenty-one doctors had drawn a blank with Josy. The cause of her illness had baffled them all.

  The first, an emergency physician, had been called out on Boxing Day, exactly eleven months previously, to the family home in Schwanenwerder. Josephine had vomited in the night and was suffering from diarrhoea. Initially they assumed it was an upset stomach brought on by the three-cheese Christmas fondue, but eventually Isabell called their private health-care line while Viktor carried their daughter in her light cambric nightdress to the lounge. He could remember how frail her arms had seemed, one hooked around his neck, hugging him for support, the other clutching her favourite toy, a fluffy blue cat called Nepomuk. Under the rigorous gaze of the assembled relatives, the doctor listened to her bony chest, administered an electrolyte infusion and prescribed a homoeopathic drug.

  ‘Gastro-enteritis. It's doing the rounds, I'm afraid. It'll sort itself out in no time. She'll be back on her feet by the end of the week.’ With that, the doctor took his leave. It'll sort itself out. They should never have believed him.

  Viktor came to a halt outside Dr Grohlke's door. The metal handle was stiff, refusing to yield to the pressure he applied. Had the strain of the past few hours reduced him to this? He wondered at his own feebleness, then realized that the door was locked. Locked from the inside.

  Why would anyone lock the door?

  He spun around, seeing the room in a series of frozen images that presented themselves to his consciousness like the pages of a flip book, jerky and delayed: framed photos of Ireland on the walls, a rubber tree languishing in a dusty corner by the window, the psoriasis patient, still waiting to be seen. He gave the handle a final furious shake and stumbled out of the waiting room into the corridor and towards the impossibly crowded foyer. Anyone would think Grohlke was the only doctor in Berlin.

  Viktor advanced towards the desk. First in line was a spotty-faced teenager, presumably waiting for a prescription, but Viktor swept past him. He knew the receptionist from previous visits and was relieved to see her at the desk. Half an hour earlier, when he and Josy had arrived at the surgery, a stranger had been standing in for her, but now Maria was back at the helm. She was in her early twenties and as solid as a goalkeeper, but she had a daughter of her own. He could count on her support.

  ‘I need you to unlock the office,’ he demanded in a voice more strident than he had intended.

  ‘Good morning, Dr Larenz. Nice to see you again.’ Maria was quick to recognize the psychiatrist. He hadn't been to the clinic in a while, but she was accustomed to seeing his face in magazines and on TV. Good looks, combined with a knack for explaining psychological problems in a straightforward way, made him a popular guest on chat shows. On this occasion, the famousl
y eloquent Dr Larenz was failing to make much sense.

  ‘I demand to see my daughter!’

  The adolescent stared at the man who had elbowed his way to the front of the queue and, sensing a problem, took a step back. Maria seemed flustered but strove to maintain her receptionist's smile.

  ‘I'm afraid I don't follow, Dr Larenz,’ she said, tugging on her left eyebrow where her piercing would normally be. She always fiddled with the silver barbell when nervous, but at Dr Grohlke's request, she removed it for work. He took an old-fashioned pride in appearances.

  ‘Does Josephine have an appointment?’

  Viktor opened his mouth, ready to unleash a furious tirade, then thought better of it and kept quiet. Of course they had an appointment. Isabell had rung the practice, and he had chauffeured Josy to the clinic; the usual routine.

  ‘Dad, what's an allergist?’ Josy had asked him in the car. ‘Is it something to do with the weather?’

  ‘No, honey, you're thinking of meteorologists.’ He watched her in the rear-view mirror and wished he could stroke her blonde hair. She seemed incredibly fragile, like an angel sketched on Japanese silk.

  ‘Allergists look after people who get sick when they come into contact with certain substances.’

  ‘Is that what's wrong with me?’

  ‘Maybe.’ Let's hope so, he added to himself. Any diagnosis would be a start. Josephine's illness and her mysterious symptoms had taken control of their lives. Six months had elapsed since she last attended school: her spasms were too distressing and sudden for her to sit in a classroom with her peers. For Isabell, it meant working part-time in order to oversee Josy's home-schooling. Viktor, in the meantime, had shut down his Friedrichstrasse practice and was caring for his daughter or, more accurately, his daughter's doctors. The last few weeks had disappeared in an endless round of appointments and consultations, for which they had nothing to show. No one could make sense of Josy's seizures, her susceptibility to infection or her night-time nosebleeds. Every now and then the symptoms abated or vanished for a while, long enough for the family to gather hope, but then the sickness would return – in most cases, more vigorously than before. So far the physicians, haematologists and neurologists had succeeded only in ruling out cancer, Aids, hepatitis and a host of diseases. One doctor had even run tests for malaria. The results came back clear.

  ‘Dr Larenz?’

  Maria's voice cut through his thoughts, pulling him back to the clinic. He realized he had been staring at her open-mouthed.

  ‘What have you done with her?’ His voice returned to him suddenly, each word sounding louder than the last.

  ‘I'm sorry, Dr Larenz, but I don't quite . . .’

  ‘What have you done with Josy?’

  The chattering patients fell silent as Viktor's question echoed through the room. It was obvious from Maria's expression that she was wondering what to do. Erratic behaviour was only to be expected at the clinic: Grohlke's doors were open to anyone who cared to make an appointment, and the practice was situated only a stone's throw from the prostitutes and junkies in Lietzenburger Street. On occasions, it seemed as if the red-light district had relocated to the lobby, and Maria would find herself dealing with undernourished rent boys who didn't give two hoots about eczema but needed a fix.

  Dr Viktor Larenz presented a predicament of an entirely different kind. For a start, he wasn't clad in dirty track pants or wearing a T-shirt riddled with holes. His face was free from oozing pimples and his feet were too elegant for battered trainers. In fact, there was something undeniably distinguished about his trim build, upright posture, broad shoulders, high forehead and assertive chin. A Berliner by birth and upbringing, he was frequently mistaken for a patrician from the north, and it was only his lack of greying temples and a classical nose that prevented him from appearing the perfect Hanseatic gentleman. Even so, there was something suavely appealing about his curly brown hair, which he had taken to wearing longer, and crooked nose, a painful reminder of a sailing accident. He was forty-three years old, but his age was indeterminate and his appearance left little doubt that this was a man whose handkerchiefs were monogrammed and who never carried change. His skin was perhaps a little pallid, but that was the hallmark of a high-flying doctor with a busy career. All this served to heighten Maria's dilemma. Distinguished psychiatrists who spent a small fortune on tailor-made suits had a natural aversion to making spectacles of themselves, but Dr Viktor Larenz was shouting hysterically and waving his arms. Maria, unable to make sense of the outburst, had no idea what to do.

  ‘Larenz!’

  Viktor turned in the direction of the gravelly voice. Alarmed by the disturbance, Dr Grohlke, a gaunt old man with sandy hair and hollowed eyes, had excused himself from his consultation and emerged from his office. His expression conveyed concern.

  ‘Is something the matter?’

  The enquiry seemed to stoke Viktor's wrath. ‘What have you done with Josy?’

  Dr Grohlke shrank back in alarm. He had known the Larenz family for almost ten years but he had never seen Viktor like this.

  ‘Listen, Larenz, old chap, why don't you come into my office and we can . . .’

  But Viktor was no longer listening. His eyes were fixed on the door to the office, which the allergist had left ajar. He took off at a run, sending the door flying open with his foot. It crashed into a trolley holding instruments and jars. The woman with psoriasis was lying on a couch. Her upper body was exposed, and in the shock of the moment she forgot to cover her breasts.

  ‘What's the matter with you, Larenz!’ shouted Dr Grohlke, but Viktor was out of the room and running down the corridor.

  ‘Josy!’

  He doubled back, trying every door.

  ‘Josy! Where are you?’ His voice cracked with panic.

  ‘Dr Larenz, please!’

  The elderly physician hurried after him as best he could, but Viktor, out of his mind with anxiety, was deaf to his pleas.

  ‘What about this room?’ he demanded when the final door on the left refused to yield.

  ‘Cleaning products. Nothing but cleaning products. The cleaner looks after the key.’

  ‘Open up!’ Viktor shook the handle like a man possessed.

  ‘Now look here . . .’

  ‘OPEN UP!’

  Dr Grohlke seized his arms and gripped them with surprising strength.

  ‘Calm down, Larenz! You've got to listen to me. Your daughter isn't in that cupboard. The cleaner locked it first thing this morning and she won't be back till tomorrow.’

  Viktor's breath came in gasps. He listened to the words without absorbing their meaning.

  ‘Let's deal with this logically.’ Dr Grohlke relaxed his grip and laid a hand on Viktor's shoulder.

  ‘When did you last see your daughter?’

  ‘Half an hour ago,’ Viktor heard himself say. ‘I left her in the waiting room and she went into your office.’

  The old man shook his head in consternation and glanced at Maria, who had followed them out of the foyer.

  ‘I haven't seen Josephine,’ she told her boss. ‘She wasn't booked in for today.’

  Nonsense! Viktor wanted to scream at her. He clutched his head.

  ‘I know for a fact that Isabell made the appointment. We arrived here this morning before Maria started work. The fellow at reception told us to go through and wait. Josy was tired and frail, so I went to fetch her some water, and by the time I got back she was—’

  ‘Fellow?’ queried Grohlke. ‘The support staff are women.’

  Viktor looked at him disbelievingly, still grappling with what he was hearing.

  ‘I haven't set eyes on Josy all morning. She didn't have an appointment.’

  The doctor's words were all but obliterated by a high-pitched noise that reached Viktor's ears from a distance, becoming louder and more oppressive as it drew near.

  ‘Haven't seen her?’ he said distraughtly. ‘Of course you've seen her. I was on my way back from the water fount
ain when the man at reception called her through. I'd promised Josy that she could see you on her own. She's twelve now and she likes a bit of independence – she even locks the bathroom door. In any case, when I got back and she wasn't in the waiting room, I assumed she was with you.’

  It dawned on Viktor that he had failed to say a single word. His mouth was open and his mind was racing, but the thoughts were trapped inside his head. He looked around helplessly, feeling as though the world was slowing down. The noise became more piercing, more intolerable, until he could barely hear the hubbub around him. Everyone seemed to be addressing him at once: Maria, Dr Grohlke, even some of the patients.

  ‘I haven't seen Josy for nearly a year.’ That was the last statement that Viktor heard with any clarity. For a fleeting moment, everything became apparent. Like a dreamer on the cusp of waking, he glimpsed the awful truth. For a fraction of a second the whole business was laid open: Josy's illness and the pain that had haunted her for the past eleven months. He knew what had happened, knew what had been done to her and, with a lurching stomach, knew they would be after him too. Sooner or later they would get to him, he knew it with unshakeable conviction, but the moment passed and the horrible truth escaped him, disappearing as forlornly as a single drop of water in a flood.

  Viktor raised his hands to his head. The piercing noise was getting closer all the time, agonizing and overwhelming, more than he could bear. It sounded like the shriek of a tortured animal, not a human cry, and it ended some time later, when his mouth eventually closed.

  1

  Years later

  He could never have foreseen that he might one day change places. At one time the room he was in, a spartan private ward at Berlin-Wedding Psychosomatic Clinic, had been reserved for his most difficult patients, but now eminent psychiatrist Dr Viktor Larenz found himself strapped to the narrow hydraulic bed, legs and arms tied down with grey elastic straps.

  Not a single person had visited in all the time he had been there – no friends, former colleagues or family. The only distraction, besides the yellowing woodchip paper, grease-spotted brown curtains and water-stained ceiling, was the twice-daily appearance of Dr Martin Roth, a young consultant psychiatrist at the clinic. No one had actually requested a visitor's permit, not even Isabell. Dr Roth had explained the situation, and Viktor could scarcely blame his former wife. Not after what had happened.