“We have to tell the police.”
He turned his head toward her with a jolt. “No! No cops.”
“Jesus, you sound just like Brian with his phobia of the police. It’s not like you’ve done anything wrong.”
Ralf rubbed the inside of the steering wheel. A huge weight would lift from his shoulders if only he could confide in somebody. This was too much to cope with on his own. But in the final analysis, he had been an accomplice to robbery, and he couldn’t risk Naomi’s giving him away.
It was impossible.
On the other hand, did his fear of a criminal record really outweigh Brian’s disappearance, the three grand he had to cough up, and the risk of something happening to Naomi? Wasn’t he being incredibly selfish?
“Dealer,” whispered Naomi beside him.
He didn’t respond.
He tried to imagine what might happen if he went to the police with this. They knew him there, at the station. They knew who he was and where he lived. And more important, they hated him. Before he could even drive, the neighborhood officers used to question him about every little goddamn thing that happened. Sometimes multiple times per week. He’d been fined for having a broken taillight, jaywalking, not carrying his ID, and riding a scooter on the sidewalk. One of those creeps had once issued him a hundred-euro penalty for “loitering in a public place as part of a group without a legitimate reason,” and not long after that, he’d had to cough up a hundred thirty euros for supposedly having caused a disturbance in the neighborhood. Back then, he earned less than thirty euros a week with his part-time job stacking shelves. They were just picking on him and his friends, plain and simple. And now he was supposed to trust these people?
Fat chance.
“Dealer,” he heard Naomi say again. She narrowed her eyes into slits. “Is that really true, Ralf? Does Brian have a dealer? A cocaine dealer?”
He shrugged apologetically.
“That stupid asshole!” yelled Naomi suddenly. “I hate him! He told me a hundred times that he’d stopped all that. All those little deals of his, and that stupid blow, and the constant lying, and now—and now that prick has taken off. He ripped off his dealer and left us to face the consequences.”
Ralf regarded her inquisitively. So that was what she thought—that Brian had made off with the cash.
“He can drop dead, as far as I’m concerned,” she continued. “I mean it. Drop dead!”
9
The morning passed without incident. Two of Helen’s patients were currently in surgery—a man having an appendectomy and a boy Thom’s age with a knee injury.
Helen rolled up a length of tubing and threw it away. Her thoughts turned to the weekend. Tomorrow and Saturday she had to work, but after that, she had three days off. She’d been looking forward to it for weeks—lounging around on the sofa in her pajamas with an embarrassingly big pack of M&Ms and a stack of DVDs.
Her heart had started beating faster without her realizing. She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t stay home alone with a dismembered corpse in the basement. The silence would grip her by the throat; it would drive her mad.
Werner had finally counted the packages: there were twenty-five in total. Six had already been disposed of. If she took two shopping bags with her tomorrow, she might be able to carry half a dozen at once. She could do the same on Saturday too. But even then, there would still be six or seven parcels left, which she wouldn’t be able to get rid of until Wednesday at the earliest. That was too much. One parcel would be too much. Every scrap, every last hair. It had to go. All of it. The packages, the guns. The chest freezer. The house too, ideally. And her car, which she had used to transport it all. Everything that reminded her of last Friday.
A quiet whimpering emanated from a bed across the way—a heavily pregnant woman waiting for an epidural. She was sitting on the edge of the bed in a hospital gown, leaning forward. Anouk was holding her firmly and comforting her. “It’ll all be OK, I promise,” she heard Anouk say. “The three of you will be together soon enough. Then you’ll have a family.”
An uncertain smile appeared on the woman’s swollen, sweaty face. “A family . . . That sounds so wonderful.”
Anouk’s eyes met Helen’s over the patient’s hunched back. She winked.
Helen did her best to produce a smile, but turned away hurriedly when she felt the corners of her mouth starting to twitch.
10
Ralf took Naomi’s bike out of his car and closed the trunk.
“Are you up to anything tomorrow night?” she asked as she stuffed her coat under the straps on the pannier rack.
“Not really. Why?”
“Sara’s brother is turning sixteen.” She blew a strand of hair from her face. “He’s a bit of a jerk and his buddies are all idiots, but Sara invited some of her friends who are coming over for the film night on Saturday too. I thought it might be nice for you to get to know them a little earlier.”
“Where’s the party?”
“In the garage at their place. So it’s a date, then?” She gave him a peck on the cheek to say goodbye.
He fought the impulse to pull her toward him and kiss her on the lips. This wasn’t the right time. Tomorrow night would be better, and then a repeat on Saturday—or a second chance. He breathed in her scent. “Great,” he said hoarsely. “Will you watch out for Mikey?”
She looked at him a little uncertainly.
“If you see him, call me right away. OK?”
“OK.”
He watched her as she wheeled her bike away, her schoolbag hanging from her shoulder by one strap. Once she disappeared around the corner, he placed his fingers on the spot where she had just kissed him.
11
“I’d prefer to get it over with by Sunday too.”
“But how?” asked Helen. “I really can’t carry any more at a time. I’m practically dragging the bags as it is.” She raised her knees and shifted in her seat. The red leather sofa looked beautiful, but it wasn’t designed with comfort in mind. “And it’d be too dangerous to make multiple trips to the car. Everyone in that hospital is so nosy.” And helpful, she added silently.
Werner was leaning forward in his armchair, his fingertips pressed together. “The waste room is inside the staff area, you say.”
“That’s right. You can’t get in without a pass.”
“Is it far away from the public area?”
“No, it’s right next to the access door.”
“OK,” he said. “What if I bring a couple of bags to the hospital tomorrow? That would save us a day.”
Helen made a quick calculation. Her eyes lit up. “Then it’ll be gone by Sunday. All of it.”
“Exactly.” He picked up a notepad and pen from the table. “Where is it exactly, this waste room?”
She felt a sudden burst of energy as she got up and stood behind him. Watched over his shoulder while he drew a map based on her description. He sketched it out in a few quick strokes and then added a cross. “Right here?”
She leaned forward. His hair smelled wonderful, of shampoo and of himself. “Yeah, right there.”
“What time?”
“My break starts at around midday.”
“Then I’ll make sure I’m in the parking lot just before twelve.”
She threw her arms around him and pressed her cheek against his temple. “Thank you,” she whispered.
He held her hand and planted a kiss on it. “Aren’t you going to ask me why I want to get rid of it all by Sunday?”
“Huh? How come?”
“I have a surprise for you,” he whispered. His breath tickled the inside of her wrist.
“A surprise?”
He leaned his head back. “I wanted to tell you on Friday night, but something got in the way.” He paused. “You and I are driving to England on Sunday. To Sussex.”
“What? Really?” Helen ran around the armchair. “That’s amazing! We haven’t been there since—”
“About a hundred yea
rs ago?”
“It was definitely in the last century, anyway.”
Smiling, she thought back to the first vacation they had gone on together. All their friends had taken the train to Salou or Malgrat de Mar, but they had borrowed Werner’s mother’s car and driven to the south of England. There, among the green hills, they’d had the vacation of their lives.
“It was like a fairy tale,” she whispered.
“Does it ever rain in fairy tales?” He brushed back a strand of hair from her temple. “It’s going to be even better than last time. Just wait until you see the hotel.”
12
Ralf lowered himself over the fence into the backyard and unbolted the gate from the inside. It didn’t look like the inhabitants were very interested in gardening: the whole thing was covered in mossy paving stones, with weeds growing through the gaps. There was no shed either. He crept over to the back window and peered inside. White floor tiles, a pleather sofa, a dining table with a pile of magazines on it, and a small fish tank. A light was on, but nobody seemed to be home—just like the woman had told him over the phone.
The scooter stood by the back door, propped up against the neighbors’ fence. Ralf carefully removed the dark cover. He had a full set of tools in his backpack, but all he needed was his slide hammer: the U-lock was dangling uselessly from the luggage rack, and the key was still inside it. Ralf wasn’t surprised. Most people believed their valuables would be safe in their own backyards—even if their only protection was a gate with a simple bolt.
13
Helen followed Werner up the stairs. She felt a little flushed from the glass of Bordeaux they had shared.
Werner had thought of everything—even somebody to look after the kids. His parents would stay in the house for a few days to make sure the children’s routines weren’t disrupted. Ernst would get up with them, and Ria had promised to make a big dish of lasagna—the girls’ favorite—as well as the ham with sauerkraut that Thom was so crazy about. It sounded too good to be true—and it was, as Helen knew all too well. Her in-laws would come with a to-do list. They might not have arranged the bookshelves in alphabetical order by the time she got home, but the dish towels would almost certainly be ironed and neatly stacked in the closet. There wasn’t a shred of humor, warmth, or pleasure in those people’s parenting style—a family was like a company to them. Three days were manageable, but she didn’t want to expose her kids to it for any longer than that.
At times like these, she struggled to accept that the children had scarcely known her own mother. Sara and Thom had only vague memories of their dear grandmother who had read Jip and Janneke out loud to them, and Emma only knew about her from stories and photos. She’d been six years old when Helen’s mother passed away.
“Good night.” Werner kissed her on the cheek.
She looked at him in astonishment. “Aren’t you coming to bed?”
He avoided her eyes and murmured something in the negative.
“Why not?”
“That bedroom—I can’t stand it right now.”
She wrapped her arms around his waist. “Then I’ll sleep in the guest room too.”
He carefully extricated himself from her embrace. “The bed in there is too small.”
“We can snuggle.”
He held her face in his hands. “Not tonight. I’m in desperate need of some sleep.” He brushed her forehead with his lips. “We’ll have plenty of time to catch up properly in England.”
“OK” was all she said. It came out as a squeak.
His eyes wandered up to the ceiling, as if he were searching for words up there. “Sorry, but . . . the air in here sometimes feels like it’s gripping me by the throat. Don’t you get that too?”
“A little.” But not so much that I don’t want to be with you, she added silently. Werner wanted to solve everything on his own once again. That had always been his way; he didn’t want to burden her with his weaknesses or doubts. It stung now more than ever.
“Night night,” he said, and stepped away from her.
She followed him with her eyes. Watched him walk down the long hall, unbuttoning his shirt as he went. He opened the door and disappeared into the guest room. Without looking back.
Helen felt the tears prick her eyes.
14
Rick had offered to drive him home, but he’d turned him down. It was only an hour’s walk, and it wasn’t raining. He wasn’t in any hurry to get back either. Ralf stalked through the darkened streets, his hands thrust deep in his jacket pockets. Six fifty-euro notes rustled inside the lining of his coat. He ought to feel good, but the grin that usually covered his face after a successful job failed to appear.
He stared stubbornly at the sidewalk and bit the inside of his cheek so hard, he tasted blood.
Mother Dear,
There was a woman on the ward today having a caesarean. It was her first child. Later on, in the break room, when I heard that she had brought a healthy boy into the world, I got choked up. My own reaction scared me. What touched me most was the expectant look in the woman’s eyes. It got under my skin. She couldn’t wait to meet her baby, to finally hold that little miracle in her arms. He would undoubtedly be the most beautiful little boy in the world, and he would grow up into a wonderful man who brought together the best qualities of both his mother and his father. He wouldn’t have to make the same mistakes as his parents, because they would do all they could to prevent that from happening.
Don’t we all have towering expectations that our children can’t possibly live up to? No woman brings a child into the world and imagines their baby will rob people when they grow up.
I can just about manage to stay calm as long as I think about the robber as “the problem,” as “packages” and “remains.” Abstract words that have nothing to do with a human being. But they’re still the remains of a person. A boy, for that matter. One who made bad choices. Choices he never got the chance to put right and that his parents were unable to protect him from.
What was his relationship like with his mother? Is she still alive? Looking for her son? Lying awake at night, just like I am?
I also wonder what kind of person he was, and if he often carried out robberies like this. Was he the kind of boy you see on news reports, waving a gun around in a gas station? A boy who beat people up on the street at night, just for kicks? Or was he so desperate—so troubled for whatever reason—that a violent robbery seemed like the only way out? I’m pretty sure he’d been using drugs. Cocaine, most likely.
Did his mother have any idea what her son was up to?
Parents always have a rosier view of their children than the rest of the world, and always stand up for them. You love your children with all your heart—a selfless love that permeates your blood, your DNA, your whole being. Even if they make bad choices and hurt other people in the process. And even if your own baby lies, cheats, and steals.
I know that now, after what Sara did.
Love persists. The umbilical cord may be cut immediately after birth, but there is always another one. You can’t see it, but you can definitely feel it. And it tugs at you forever, Mother. Forever.
Because of what I did, a mother will never know what happened to her son. She can’t even bury him. I took that away from her.
Werner says it’s pointless to think about it or to talk about it, that it won’t change anything. And he’s right. It’s irreversible. Just like your death, and Father’s. I had to get through that, and I’ll get through this too.
I need to try and sleep now, Mother.
I love you.
I miss you terribly.
Helen
Friday
1
Ralf took a bite of his grilled ham-and-cheese sandwich. Usually, his mother would have something to say if he didn’t eat what she considered a “normal” breakfast, but today she sat with a mug of tea in her hands and stared into the yard through the glass panel in the kitchen door. There wasn’t much to see there. T
he shed, the paving slabs, a few planters. The backyard bordered the neighbors’ on all three sides. His father had planted linden trees along the fence to give more privacy, and it had worked: nobody could see you sitting outside. But the trees also kept the sun out. Ralf recalled the yard at Sara’s house. They could always find a sunny spot there. And they had that swimming pool, an outdoor kitchen, and a lawn big enough to play soccer on.
Tonight, he would finally see the inside of that house. He hoped the father would be there too.
“There was somebody at the door looking for you last night. A slightly older boy,” said his mother.
“Who?”
“He did tell me his name, but I can’t remember it.”
“What did he look like?”
“Smartly dressed.” She gestured to her upper body. “He was wearing slacks and a shirt. And a red cap.”
Ralf looked steadily at his mother. He had suddenly lost his appetite. “His face, Mom.”
“Pale—a little unhealthy looking. Dark-blond hair. He didn’t seem quite with it, but he was very friendly. Very polite.”
“What did he say?” He put his sandwich back on his plate.
“He’d lost your phone number and wanted to remind you that you’d arranged to meet up.” She frowned. “Sunday, he said.”
“What did you do?”
“Well, I gave him your number. Didn’t he call?”
He clenched his jaw and turned his face away.
She paused briefly, and then asked softly, “Ralf? That boy isn’t a friend of yours, is he?”
He didn’t respond.
“Are you in trouble?”
Ralf avoided her eyes. He felt tears welling up, and his body began to tremble. He took a deep breath and sniffed hard, like he had a cold.
“Ralf, if you tell me what’s wrong, then I can help you.” Then, more gently, “You don’t have to figure this out on your own. You know you can always turn to me and your father for help.”
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