Splinter Page 11

  ‘Deadly?’

  She expelled a deep breath. ‘Yes. Why do you think I’m on the run? We’re in the greatest danger. We’re both in possession of some secret we want to forget. Our enemies are more powerful than us, that’s for sure, but together we may manage it.’

  ‘Manage what?’

  ‘To find out what they’re doing or have done to us. Then we document it and put it on the internet. We publicize the awful truth.’

  Marc looked at his watch. Not for the first time, he wondered whether the alarm would go off at some point and extricate him from this nightmare. ‘Have you any idea how crazy you sound?’

  ‘Not half as crazy as the man who was giving Bleibtreu an earful.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Marc felt his stomach fill with bile. ‘What else did he say?’

  Emma’s hands started to tremble. She put them to her lips as if to lessen the impact of her words. ‘He said: “Marc Lucas mustn’t remember, or there’ll be more deaths”.’

  26

  The hot-water tap wasn’t working. The other gushed like diesel from a pump for HGVs, but the water was too cold to dissolve the aspirin tablet Marc had dropped into the tooth mug. The hotel bathroom was a windowless cubby hole partitioned off from the bedroom by thin plasterboard walls that provided optical privacy at most, but certainly not acoustic. He could even hear Emma tossing more papers into her holdall.

  What deadly secret are you carrying around with you?

  He wondered whether to tell her about the last few minutes before the accident. About the moment when Sandra undid her seatbelt in order to get something from the back seat.

  That coarse-grained, monochrome photo. The one I couldn’t make out.

  But what did that sequence, which seemed to him more like a dream than a genuine memory, have to do with the shock waves whose turbulence now engulfed him? Who was so anxious to brainwash him? He could scarcely recall the last few minutes before the crash in any case. There was no need to expunge his memory of them; it had dissipated of its own accord, thanks to the painkillers they’d given him at the scene of the accident.

  He opened the bathroom cabinet in search of a nail file or some other implement with which to break up the aspirin, but the hotel’s complimentaries were limited to a two-pack of condoms older than its use-by date. Shutting the cabinet again, he flinched at his own reflection in the mirror. His face looked as if a seismic shock had sent its individual features into free-fall. His sunken eyes surmounted two pendulous pouches, and even the corners of his mouth seem to be sagging under the effect of gravity. It was a long time since he’d coerced them into a smile.

  Dusty though it was, the overhead light shed a glare that accentuated his look of general ill health. The colour of his eyes and skin was reminiscent of someone suffering from jaundice.

  He held his wrists under the icy jet. Its chill helped him to sort out his thoughts. If the Bleibtreu Clinic and the amnesia experiment really existed, he hadn’t gone mad but become the victim of a conspiracy.

  That was the good news. The bad news: if she wasn’t dead, his wife must be actively involved in that conspiracy.

  But why? To what end?

  Why would Sandra want to subject him to such unutterable torment? Why would she have faked her death and come to life a short while later, only to traumatize him still further by pretending not to know him? Was she capable of such cruelty?

  True, she was an actress. She found it easy to take people in. Marc remembered their first date only too well. She had invited him to a performance at her drama school, introduced him to her fellow students as her brother, and then shocked them by kissing him passionately on the lips two minutes later. After that they had made a game out of putting each other in embarrassing situations. His revenge for the incestuous kiss had been to stand up in the middle of her next public appearance and clap so frenetically that she burst out laughing and forgot her lines. They were both proficient in swapping roles, but never in order to wound each other. Sandra’s acting ability and her sense of fun had formed a bond between them, never a rift. Besides, there was no reason for her to want to destroy what they had built up together.

  Unless. . .

  Marc stirred the aspirin with his forefinger. Only a third of it had dissolved.

  Unless this really is a matter of life and death.

  He took a swallow, although the tablet wasn’t even frothing on the surface. On a scale between white- and red-hot, his headache was entering the incandescent zone.

  Or. . .

  The thin disposable cup crumpled in his hand as a possible explanation occurred to him.

  What if it’s Sandra who is in the Bleibtreu programme, not me? What if she genuinely can’t remember me any more?

  Throwing the broken cup onto the floor, he opened the bathroom door and headed back to the bedroom along the narrow passage flanked by the wardrobe. He must ask Emma what she knew about his wife. Perhaps she’d gathered that Sandra had also been part of the experimental programme. Although that would raise a myriad new questions, it would at least account for her whereabouts during the last few weeks, not to mention her recent behaviour.

  The premises were so cramped that the open wardrobe door was barring his route back to the bedroom. He was about to shut it when the sound of his own name abruptly froze him to the spot.

  ‘Marc Lucas,’ Emma was saying in a low voice. ‘I’ve found him. We’re now at the Tegel Inn Hotel on Bernauer Strasse.’

  Holding his breath, Marc peered through the narrow crack between the wardrobe door and the outer wall of the bathroom.

  What the hell’s going on?

  No doubt about it: Emma was on the phone to someone.

  ‘It’s now one minute to midnight,’ she said. ‘I’m not sure if I can persuade him to come with me.’

  He drew back. In an even lower voice, she said: ‘It’ll be hard to gain his trust. He’s very suspicious.’

  The last words were like a starting pistol. Heedless of what he might be leaving behind in the room, he quietly opened the main door and stole out into the corridor. The overhead light had gone out. The corridor was in darkness, so he had to find his way by means of the thin slivers of light escaping from under some of the doors.

  Who was Emma talking to? What was her role in this crazy affair?

  He didn’t dare put on speed till he reached the stairs, which he raced down two at a time. He almost lost his footing when he reached the ground floor and slalomed around the reception desk.

  ‘Oh, you were in all the time. . .’ the night porter called after him.

  Marc continued on his way to the exit, walking backwards. ‘Was it you who knocked earlier on?’

  ‘Yes. There’s a problem with the hot water, and. . .’

  He didn’t hear the rest. It was swallowed up by the revolving door that propelled him out of the hotel and into the street.

  What now? Where to?

  The traffic was noticeably sparser. There was no one in sight but a shift worker walking his cocker spaniel.

  Where shall I go? Without money, without a car, without a home. . . without any memories?

  He stood beside the kerb at some temporary traffic lights, looking first left and then right like some well-trained schoolboy. Behind him, the hotel’s neon sign deluded potential guests with three stick-on stars.

  His wristwatch vibrated, reminding him of another vital necessity he lacked: the pills for the splinter in his neck.

  The man with the cocker spaniel was coming towards him, far too engrossed in his mobile phone to notice that his dog had been wanting to relieve itself for a considerable time.

  Marc looked up at the third floor, where light showing through cracks in the blind denoted Emma’s probable location. He wondered if he’d left his mobile up there but found it in his jacket pocket.

  He opened the phone and decided to go right, guessing that a busier intersection lay in that direction – possibly an Underground station as well. He seemed
to have inadvertently turned off his mobile after that last call in the taxi, because the display was dead. It couldn’t be for lack of juice, because when he turned it on he was asked for his PIN number. The first time it beeped a warning he thought he must have mistyped the number. The second beep reminded him of the strange man who had answered his own number – and called himself Marc Lucas! After the third attempt he felt sure he didn’t know the code for the swapped SIM card. He came to a halt, satisfied himself that no one had been following him, and wiped a raindrop off the display.

  Input incorrect.

  Utterly exhausted, he read the second line of the automated error message.

  Phoned locked.

  And suddenly knew what he had to do.

  27

  The man looked less like a hunter than a hunted beast. His eyes swivelled to and fro as he spoke, incapable of focusing on any particular feature of the office. Not that it contained much that was worth a second glance. Neither the walls plastered with ‘Wanted’ notices and street maps, nor the battered regulation filing cabinets, nor the yellowish washbasin on the right of the door, nor the anonymous utensils on the cramped little desk – one of three – at which they sat facing one another. Marc had often wondered if members of the municipal administration were selected for their colour-blindness – those of them, at least, who were privileged to choose the interior decoration of public buildings. The police station was done up in shades of brown and ochre never to be found in nature. It looked as unhealthy as the policemen working there, whose pallid complexions had changed as little in recent years as the surrounding décor.

  Marc knew Wedding police station of old. As boys, he and Benny had tried to steer clear of the place, not always with success. He now discovered that it made a considerable difference, when you were waiting to make a statement in these airless rooms, whether you were a perpetrator or a victim. He had never felt as bad in the old days, when they were called to account because one of their gigs had ended in a punch-up. He had always got off with a caution, fortunately, a criminal record would have put paid to his law studies.

  ‘Let’s get one thing straight,’ said the policeman who had just entered the office trailing a cloud of cigarette smoke and introduced himself as Detective Inspector Stoya. ‘We’ve had enough nutters waltzing in here and wasting our time today, so kindly get to the point. What do you know about this kidnapping?’

  Bewildered, Marc watched him vandalize a half-empty mug of coffee with several artificial sweeteners from a dispenser.

  ‘Kidnapping?’ he said. That made Stoya look him in the face for the first time. For one brief moment he felt he was staring into a mirror that reflected negative features only. Tired eyes, sunken cheeks, pouches that looked heavy enough to drag the whole head earthwards. Marc knew just how tense the policeman’s neck muscles would feel if he touched them. His own ached whenever he moved.

  Stoya slid a newspaper from under his mug and pointed to the front page.

  Over the photographs of two children, yesterday’s headline screamed –

  ‘THE EYE COLLECTOR STRIKES AGAIN!’

  Marc recalled having heard something about a serial kidnapper on the radio – a psycho who abducted children aged between seven and twelve and gave the parents seventy-two hours to find their hiding place before he killed them and cut out their left eyes. No child had yet been rescued alive from the clutches of the ‘Eye Collector’, and his latest ultimatum was due to run out in a few hours’ time.

  ‘No, I’m not here about that,’ said Marc. He now realized why the 35th Precinct was so busy at this time of night. The corridors were teeming with uniformed officers and plainclothes men, numerous telephones were ringing simultaneously, and the waiting room was full to overflowing. If he and Stoya had this three-desk office to themselves, it was presumably because the other two occupants were out on the manhunt.

  Stoya sighed and glanced at the clock above the door. ‘Sorry, I was misinformed. So what do you want?’

  I want to report a crime. To be more precise, a conspiracy.

  Marc had spent the long wait trying to think of some suitable preamble, but without success. He had eventually decided to answer any questions off the cuff – a mistake, as it turned out, because what he had to say sounded ludicrous even to his own ears. He could almost predict how the conversation would go.

  ‘You can’t get into your flat?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Why come to the police? Why not call a locksmith?’

  ‘Because someone’s holding the door shut from the inside.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘My late wife. . .’

  Stoya eyed the clock impatiently. He looked as if he might jump to his feet at any moment, so Marc broke the silence. ‘I want to report a crime.’

  He went on to summarize the inexplicable events that had overtaken him, speaking faster and faster the more often the policeman’s facial expressions changed. They ranged from impatience and boredom to astonished incredulity and undisguised scepticism. There were even times when Marc wasn’t sure Stoya was listening to him at all. He had pulled his computer keyboard towards him and spent the last couple of minutes staring at the antiquated box monitor with one hand on his mouse.

  ‘Okay. . .’ he drawled when Marc was finished at last. ‘In that case, I’ve only one question for you.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘Got any left?’

  ‘Any what?’

  ‘Any of the stuff you’ve been taking.’

  Stoya rose and signalled to a young uniformed cop who had just come in.

  ‘Look, I know it sounds absurd. . .’ Marc began, but the inspector raised his hand with an indulgent smile.

  ‘No, no, don’t worry, I hear this sort of thing every day.’

  Marc got up too. ‘Please, can’t you send an officer to my place to check it out?’

  The young cop was now standing just behind him, awaiting instructions. He smelt of warm sleep and cheap cologne. He’d probably been taking a nap in a broom cupboard and freshened himself up with aftershave.

  ‘I don’t have time for this nonsense, not now of all times.’

  ‘Okay, then at least check my identity. Then I’ll know if I’m really insane or the victim of a criminal offence.’

  Stoya picked up his mug and walked to the door. ‘I’ve already done that.’

  ‘Done what?’

  The young cop tried, overzealously, to hustle him towards the door. Marc could feel his warm breath on the back of his neck.

  ‘I checked your statement. My colleague here will attend to you from now on.’

  Stoya opened the door to the passage. A babble of voices drifted into the room. ‘I have to save the lives of two children. Afraid I don’t have time for shoplifters.’

  ‘Shoplifters?’ Marc repeated in bewilderment. He shook off the young cop’s hand.

  ‘Chemists don’t like it when people fail to pay for their medication.’

  ‘No, that was a misunderstanding. I made a point of leaving the man my credit card.’

  ‘Which was invalid.’

  ‘But I’m not here about that, damn it!’

  ‘All right, I’ll give it to you straight: I know what medication you’re taking. The complainant says you asked for a psychiatric drug of the strongest possible kind.’

  ‘What?’ Marc’s hand went to his neck. ‘No, no, no. I needed something for a splinter in my neck. I’m not crazy.’

  ‘The splinter you acquired in a car crash?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘A car crash that killed your wife?’

  Marc groaned aloud.

  ‘Who now refuses to let you into your flat?’

  Marc fell silent. They’d come to the end of the conversation he’d previously conducted with himself.

  ‘And you’re telling me you aren’t crazy?’ Stoya nodded to his colleague and strode off without a backward glance.

  ‘Okay, let’s go.’

  Th
is time Marc didn’t have the energy to shake off the young cop’s hand as he was steered along the passage – away from the senior officers’ ground-floor offices and upstairs to the rooms he had so often seen from the inside as a youth.

  He bowed his head, wondering where else the billows of insanity would wash him up tonight, now that they had already swept away his car, his pills, his personal contacts and his money. He had even forfeited the trust of the police. He longed for a trapdoor to open and swallow him up – send him plummeting down, away from this unreal reality and into a black hole of oblivion.

  But that happened only in dreams. In cruel actuality there were no secret passages to a better world, no heavensent rope ladders to a tree-house in which you could hide from the devil and come to rest. Miracles didn’t happen in the harsh, neon-lit reality of a big-city police station.

  Or did they?

  Just as he had a few hours ago, when staring into the crater of the building site, Marc couldn’t believe his eyes as he was shepherded through the reception area.

  How was it possible?

  He had told no one where he wanted to go, yet barring his path was the one person he’d longed to have at his side here and now, in this hopeless situation.

  28

  Before his first encounter with Constantin at the Senner family home, Sandra had warned him against the impulse to salute which her father evoked in most of his fellow men. ‘He walks into a room, and 50 per cent of those present stop talking. The other 50 per cent resist an urge to jump up and break into spontaneous applause.’

  She’d had to shout those few words, which characterized Constantin so aptly, to make herself heard above the rock music blaring from the car radio. She was eighteen, exactly seven months older than Marc, and already in possession of a driving licence.

  His memories of that sweltering summer’s day were shrouded in a pale-blue haze but as vivid as if he’d had to memorize every detail for an exam. It was the day on which she proposed to introduce him to her parents for the first time. Him, a good-for-nothing youth whom she’d met at a New Romantics concert in Zehlendorf. Marc would never normally have strayed into such an upmarket district, but the school authorities had instituted a competition for best band, and one of the venues was the assembly hall of Sandra’s Westend high school. They’d all thought at first that the blond, pony-tailed girl in trainers was making fun of him, but after the concert she’d left her place in the front row and gone backstage to talk shop with him. She not only knew all the bands they imitated, she even went to their concerts and listened to heavier music than Marc himself. What he found far more surprising was her boyish behaviour. She drank beer from the bottle, belched after taking a long swig and borrowed his Labello heedless of the risk of infection, although he couldn’t detect any cold sores on her lips.