Splinter Page 21

  ‘No?’

  ‘We’re being chased.’

  Marc turned to look.

  Shit, what is it this time?

  The motorcyclist only two metres from their rear bumper was taking no more notice of traffic regulations than Benny. Instead of a helmet he wore a black balaclava and a blue-grey scarf wound around the lower part of his face. Mounted on a light motocross bike, he was steering with one hand and holding something to his ear with the other.

  ‘Who on earth’s that?’

  Benny picked up his mobile, which seemed to be receiving another text message, and shot back on to the road via an unoccupied parking space. Their faceless pursuer did likewise.

  ‘One of Valka’s guys,’ said Benny. He glanced at the mobile’s display and put it down again.

  ‘Valka? You mean you’re still working for that psychopath?’

  At that moment there was a flash outside the car. Benny had just driven across a red light at around 100 kph. The motorcyclist behind them had also ignored the speed camera.

  ‘There, straight ahead!’ Emma cried, pointing to the yellow Volvo, which had reappeared at last.

  They were now speeding along Mehringdamm towards the city centre. All that slowed them down were the numerous delivery vans, more and more of which were double parked.

  Twenty seconds later, only a Smart car separated them from the yellow saloon and the motocross bike seemed to have disappeared. Marc didn’t notice this until he realized he could no longer hear it blatting away behind them.

  ‘Have we shaken him off?’ he asked as they ignored another red light and turned right into Leipziger Strasse. It had now stopped snowing.

  ‘No,’ said Benny, and Emma uttered another scream. The motorbike had shot out of an entrance on their right and the man in the balaclava was alongside them.

  ‘He’s got a gun!’ Emma yelled, ducking down. Benny braked hard before the man could pull the trigger, and this time it really was a collision that hurled them all forwards. The heavy 4x4 behind them had failed to react in time and was now propelling them across the carriageway with all its considerable weight.

  ‘Bloody hell!’ Marc shouted, but it was already too late. In the fraction of a second it took for the car to slew round, he recalled the last few moments before his crash with Sandra: the photograph of nothing identifiable, the sound of a tyre bursting, the steering wheel escaping from his grasp and the clump of trees coming ever closer.

  Then came a crash, but not in his memory: in the present. They had hit the motorcycle. The rider toppled over sideways and disappeared under their bonnet. There was a frightful, protracted grating sound, worse than that made by ten fingernails scratching a slate, and their car came to rest at last.

  Benny was the first to open his door, after an instant’s shocked silence, followed by Marc. Emma remained sitting in the back, trembling but unscathed. ‘Where did he go?’ she said.

  Benny and Marc stared at each other in dismay.

  The bike was lying wedged beneath the bonnet sideways on. There was no sign of the rider.

  They were quickly surrounded by a gaggle of interested spectators. Traffic jams developed in both directions. Horns blared.

  Marc went round the back to see if their pursuer had ended up beneath the wheels of the vehicle behind them.

  ‘Are you crazy, you idiots?’ yelled the driver of the 4x4, who had been inspecting his chromium-plated radiator grille, which was stove in. A man in his mid-fifties, he was wearing a tracksuit, sweatshirt and camouflage-green combat boots. ‘You must have shit for brains!’

  Marc took no notice of him, nor did he bend down to look for the vanished motorcyclist. He was staring uncomprehendingly into Benny’s boot, which had sprung open on impact.

  What the. . .?

  In addition to a canvas bag, the boot contained a small arsenal: two knives, an automatic pistol, a pump-action shotgun and, unless his eyes deceived him, some secateurs, lying on top of a transparent plastic bag with some pink liquid sloshing around inside it.

  Before he could reach for it Benny spun him around.

  ‘Leave it!’ he snapped.

  ‘But what have you been up to?’

  Marc indicated Benny’s boot. His brother was now forcing the lid down with both hands.

  ‘That’s what I’d like to know!’ bellowed the tracksuited figure behind them. ‘Why slam on your anchors like that?’

  Far away and faint as yet, police sirens could be heard approaching from Potsdamer Platz.

  ‘You push off, I’ll deal with this,’ said Benny. He rammed the lid shut.

  Marc stared blankly at the car’s battered rear end.

  ‘I’ll explain later, I promise. There’s no time now.’

  Benny looked at the intersection where the Volvo had turned off before the shunt brought them to a standstill.

  ‘There’s always a traffic jam on Friedrichstrasse. You could still catch them.’

  His brother had to repeat himself before Marc shook off his inertia and resumed the pursuit on foot.

  57

  He hadn’t run far when he caught sight of her.

  Sandra.

  The driver of the Volvo had dropped her and disappeared into an underground car park in the next block, the illuminated sign above whose entrance proclaimed that there were still 317 spaces free. Sandra was waiting at some lights. She was wearing a cream-coloured winter coat with a synthetic fur collar and standing with her hands on her hips as if she had backache.

  Or as if she was pregnant.

  He was closing the gap between them and had covered half the block when the car park’s digital sign changed to 316.

  What’s she doing here? And who was driving her? Constantin?

  The pedestrian light changed to green and Sandra set off. She seemed in no hurry, in fact she was feeling for something in her outsize handbag as she went. Her golden-yellow hair bobbed up and down at every step. Marc felt so close to his wife he fancied he could smell the fragrance of her shampoo, although they were still at least fifty metres apart.

  ‘Sandra!’ he called, but the only response he got was some derisive remarks from a couple of youths slouching out of a mobile-phone shop. He clutched his side, breathing hard to relieve his stitch. Just as the urge to rest became unbearable, he spotted where she was planning to go.

  She’s going shopping. Of course, it won’t be long now.

  The window of the baby boutique was already decorated for the winter season. A snow cannon was showering the playpens and prams on display with fat flakes of artificial snow, and child-friendly customers were being lured into the shop by an over-lifesize snowbaby in pink rompers stationed outside the entrance.

  Sandra slowed; she was now within arm’s reach of him. He put out his hand, longing to stroke her hair and run his fingers over the little bump on the back of her head – the one he always had to knead when she got a migraine. He wanted to massage her neck, hold her against him and gaze into her eyes, imagining they would give him the answers to all his questions. In the end, all he ventured to do was tap her on the shoulder and say her name. Louder than he intended, in a hoarse voice he himself failed to recognize.

  ‘Sandra!’

  She swung round. For a moment she strove to retain her composure, wondering whether a smile or a word of greeting would be appropriate. Then fear gained the upper hand. The corners of her mouth began to quiver, and Marc could read her thoughts.

  What does he want?

  She retreated a step and opened her mouth, but it was Marc who spoke first: ‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.’

  He raised his hand.

  Seen from the front, the woman bore not the slightest resemblance to Sandra. She merely shook her head in alarm.

  ‘No, no, I’m not after your. . .’ Marc stammered, pointing to the handbag which the far too old, far too heavily made-up blonde was clutching in white-knuckled trepidation. ‘I’m sorry, I mistook you for somebody else.’

  She backed awa
y from him, not turning round until she had put a safe distance between them. Marc stared after her and repeated his apology when she looked back at him over her shoulder with the expression people normally reserve for tramps and beggars. Leaving the baby boutique behind, she merged with a party of Japanese tourists who were just alighting from a bus at the Friedrichstrasse intersection.

  ‘So sorry,’ Marc whispered in the direction the unknown woman had taken, disappearing like a name you can’t remember.

  So sorry.

  Looking down, he noticed that he was standing in a puddle of melted snow and had lost control over his wet, trembling fingers. He was feeling hypoglycaemic but not hungry in the least, dead tired but as overwrought as someone who has drunk a whole pot of coffee on an empty stomach. All he wanted to do was cry. For his wife, his life, himself. But the floodgates refused to open.

  I’m losing my mind. For the first time, he formulated it as a statement, not a question. Then he shut his eyes and buried his face in his hands, heedless of what the passers-by must be thinking as he got in their way.

  Or did they exist at all? Perhaps he wasn’t standing on a pavement with his eyes shut. Perhaps the big-city cacophony was just a figment of his imagination.

  Perhaps I’m lying in a hospital bed and the parking meter beside me is a drip. I’m wearing a catheter, not a pair of jeans, and the roar of passing traffic is the sound of my ventilator.

  He dreaded to open his eyes. He feared the worst – in other words, was afraid to confront the truth that would reveal his life to be a lie. When he finally brought himself to do so, he put his head back like a child trying to catch snowflakes on its tongue. The initial shock was not so great because the cloudscape in the cement-grey sky distracted his attention from the scaffolding. Then the plastic sheeting fluttered, plastered against the office building by the wind.

  This is impossible.

  The realization exploded like a bomb, setting off an earthquake inside him. He reeled, although he didn’t move.

  Slowly, as if he really did have a splinter in his neck, Marc turned on the spot and scanned his surroundings like a 3D camera, storing items of information that vastly intensified his bewilderment. He saw the baby boutique, the car-hire firm, the medical bookstore, the entrance to the underground garage and, beside it, the inflatable mascot bobbing in the wind outside the mobile-phone shop. He remembered all these details, having seen them once before from a different perspective.

  While peeing. On the sixth floor.

  And then, when he had come full circle and returned to his original position, and when Emma cautiously put her hand on his shoulder from behind, he saw the final proof: the polished brass plate that discreetly identified the psychiatric institution situated inside the building:

  BLEIBTREU CLINIC

  It was back.

  And he was standing right outside its imposing entrance.

  58

  She spotted it at the same moment as Marc but reacted faster. He felt the hand on his shoulder relax its pressure and slide off. The next thing he saw was Emma’s back. She was heading for the clinic’s revolving door, carefully putting one foot in front of the other as if in response to a hypnotic command.

  ‘Emma, no!’ he wanted to cry, but it was too late. Two men had opened the glass side door and emerged into the cold with cigarettes and lighters at the ready. Emma squeezed past them and slipped inside before the door could shut.

  Marc had no choice. He followed her.

  The entrance hall looked at first sight like an airport’s check-in area. A strip of red carpet led to a brushed-aluminium reception desk, and awaiting visitors behind it was a young woman in a kind of uniform. She was chatting to a white-haired gentleman who was standing in front of the counter with a cup of coffee in his hand. Classical muzak provided a soothing acoustic background.

  ‘But that really isn’t your job, Professor,’ Marc heard the young woman say as he slowly came up behind Emma. She had paused about halfway to the reception desk and was looking up. Like the clinic itself, the lobby was a prime example of wasted space and energy. The atrium extended as high as the third floor, where the suites of offices began. The glass walls created the impression that one was standing in a gigantic aquarium from which the water had been drained. Every footstep re-echoed, churchlike, from the ceilings and walls.

  ‘The silly thing is always going wrong,’ trilled the receptionist, pointing to her computer screen. ‘We couldn’t even access the Internet yesterday.’ Neither she nor her companion had noticed them yet.

  ‘We must get out of here,’ Marc whispered, taking Emma’s hand. It felt cold and moist.

  ‘I told you so: the clinic exists. It hasn’t disappeared.’

  Emma was far too agitated to keep her voice down. ‘They gave you the wrong address, Marc. They wanted to lure you to that building site – that’s just what they were discussing when I overheard them.’

  Her voice had risen steadily, attracting the attention of the blonde behind the desk.

  ‘Can I help you?’ she fluted. The white-haired man turned round. His expression conveyed a touch of annoyance at being disturbed while flirting with the blonde, who was forty years his junior, but his displeasure persisted only as long as it took for the coffee cup to slip through his fingers and smash on the marble floor.

  ‘Thank God!’ he exclaimed, half surprised, half relieved. He whipped out his mobile phone. ‘Frau Ludwig is back. I repeat, Frau Ludwig is. . .’

  Marc was now tugging harder at Emma’s hand, but she seemed rooted to the spot. He couldn’t get her to budge a millimetre.

  Back to the exit and out of here, fast!

  While he was wasting precious seconds the white-haired man bustled over to them, panting as if his short sprint from the reception desk had left him drained of energy. He raised both hands as a token of goodwill.

  ‘Are you all right?’ he asked.

  Emma’s eyes filled with tears. ‘You remember me?’ she asked timidly.

  The man was now only two steps away. Marc had let go of her hand in readiness to beat a retreat on his own if necessary.

  ‘But of course,’ the man said. ‘We’ve been looking everywhere for you.’

  Everything happened very quickly after that. The lift on their right disgorged three male nurses, who came rushing out even before the aluminium doors had fully opened. It took them only a few seconds to force Emma to the floor and pin her hands behind her back. She was immobilized a moment later by a shot in the arm.

  Marc, who didn’t have a chance to help her, wondered why they had spared him so far – why they were tolerating his silent presence in the clinic’s reception hall and when he would share her fate.

  He shrank back as a figure loomed up on his right. It was the white-haired man, who did the last thing his brain, which was programmed for escape, expected. He put out his hand and expressed his thanks.

  ‘You’ve been of great assistance and saved us a great deal of trouble. It’s a real blessing you’ve brought her back.’

  ‘Huh?’

  Marc stared after the nurses, who had ensconced Emma in a wheelchair and were trundling her over to the lift.

  ‘I hope she wasn’t too much of a handful?’

  ‘A handful?’ Marc repeated.

  A car sounded its horn outside, but to him it seemed like a signal from another universe.

  ‘Frau Ludwig badly injured two of our nurses when they tried to apprehend her in the street yesterday. She tends to become violent when suffering from one of her bouts of paranoia. Where did you find our patient, Herr. . .?’

  The white-haired man withdrew his hand, which Marc still hadn’t shaken, with an air of disappointment.

  ‘L-Lucas,’ Marc said automatically. ‘Marc Lucas.’ He clutched the back of his neck. Another reflex action, even though the dressing was no longer there.

  ‘Ah yes, I remember now. Weren’t you a patient here?’

  ‘You know me?’

  ‘Ye
s, of course. When was that accident of yours? Six weeks ago?’

  Mark’s head started spinning. ‘Who are you?’ he asked. He’d never seen the man before in his life. Neither the jacket-crowned smile nor the high forehead nor the star-shaped birthmark on the throat, just below the chin, evoked the faintest recollection.

  ‘Oh, forgive me,’ said the man. ‘I thought you knew where you were.’ His smile vanished. ‘I’m Professor Patrick Bleibtreu.’

  59

  Nobody stopped him. No burly figure barred his path, no one grabbed him by the sleeve or applied an armlock and pinned him face down on the floor. Yet he was so weak, so incapable of resistance, he would have been easy meat.

  His head was in a whirl. If this really was the director of the clinic, who had he been with yesterday afternoon? Who had picked him up outside Neukölln public baths and subjected him to an hours-long inquisition?

  The revolving door spat him back into the outside world, but he felt as if his inner self was still beside the white-haired man in the atrium of the Bleibtreu Clinic, waiting for him to return.

  He turned and looked up. This was where he had been yesterday, but he wasn’t in Französische Strasse; he was in a parallel street one block away.

  They want to destroy me. Someone wants me to lose my memory and is using dirty tricks to achieve his aim.

  The Maybach had driven down Französische Strasse and turned off into an underground car park connected to the office building on this side of the street.

  Marc laughed hysterically. He’d never seen the Bleibtreu Clinic from the outside, and the draped scaffolding outside the windows had concealed the charade. Only the windows of the men’s room were unobstructed, but their partial view of the intersection hadn’t aroused his suspicions.

  And now? What am I to do now?

  He blundered aimlessly along the pavement. He was fighting an invisible opponent, unable to distinguish between good and evil, and he didn’t even know the reason for all that was happening.