Under the Ice

by Gisa Klönne

The force has a name – of course it does. But it is a name Tim doesn’t want to think of; a name he wants to forget for ever, because maybe then the evil won’t come back and he can at least die here alone. Stone walls surround him, cold and smooth and hard. There is a strong smell of urine and faeces. On his first tentative reconnaissance he slipped in a corner on a pile of excrement, and the mattress he found in another corner of his prison is smelly and damp. He must have peed in his sleep, like when he was little. He even wet the bed on school trip once. He huddles up without making a noise, trying not to think of what happened when the others found out. Maybe it isn’t pee on the mattress; maybe it’s blood.

  He must have fallen asleep, because he is suddenly woken by a noise. A whimpering sound fills the room, soft and high and desperate. It takes Tim a while to realise that it’s coming from him. He bites his lips, curls himself up even smaller, and gropes for the metal disc he found in the gap between mattress and wall – a small engraved tag with a steel ring that Tim recognises as Dr D.’s dog tag because, attached to the ring, there is a little strap with glass beads like on Jonny’s knife.

  Jonny was here. Jonny hid Dr D.’s dog tag here. When Tim first found the dog tag he was pleased, but then he realised there could be no rescue – neither for Jonny nor for him. He realised that the hidden dog tag was only another of Jonny’s Red Indian tricks – a way of marking a trail, a secret message to his allies that was invisible to the enemy. But there are no more allies.

  The pressure seems to rise even higher. Something is running out of Tim’s nose. He doesn’t know whether it’s snot or blood, and he doesn’t care – nor does he have any strength left to wipe it away. His mouth is dry, but he is past feeling thirsty or hungry. He lies on the wet mattress, stroking the dog tag with his index finger and trying to think of Jonny. He wonders what he thought and did when he was here in this room, and what he would do now, if he were Tim. And he wonders whether Jonny’s happy hunting ground really exists – whether Jonny and Dr D. are there now, waiting for Tim.

  Another unfamiliar noise – muffled murmurs, followed by a metallic scrape. The evil is coming back; any minute now it will open the door. Tim makes himself smaller still, edging as far into the corner as he can.

  The murmurs stop, the scraping is suddenly loud. A surge of fresh air billows into the room, and the blackness behind Tim’s eyelids explodes to a bloody red.

  Tim presses himself even more firmly against the wall. If only he could melt into it, become stone.

  The air. The redness. The cry of a man, repeated over and over again. ‘Oh God, oh God, oh God, oh God!’

  And then a hand, warm and soft, cradles Tim’s chin and gently lifts it.

  *

  Fear, excrement, pools of blood. The stench is overwhelming. Judith is only vaguely aware of the tears running down her face as she kneels on the stinking wet mattress, beside the huddled bundle that was once an inquisitive boy. At first she had tried to put him in the recovery position and even asked him a question: ‘Who brought you here, Tim, who?’ But she soon realised that the boy had crossed a boundary and was too scared to react to anything any more. Very carefully Judith strokes his sticky hair; any other physical contact makes him flinch.

  ‘You’re safe, Tim. They can’t hurt you any more,’ she whispers. The boy presses himself against the wall. She doesn’t know whether he can hear her, but she keeps talking to him – words of comfort, messages from an intact world that speak of sea and light and fresh, sun-drenched air. Messages of hope that speak of love and happiness that can be won back; it’s enough to want them.

  Time passes. The voices die away behind Judith’s back. Footsteps recede, linger, return. Very far away she thinks she can hear the wail of a siren, but perhaps it is only wishful thinking, because every second in this dungeon is so unbearable. The boy on the mattress whimpers briefly, then tenses up again. He is holding something in his right fist; a piece of metal gleams between his dirt-encrusted fingers. But Judith doesn’t dare take it; she stays where she is, kneeling at his side, stroking his hair, trying to shield him. Life is fragile and hellishly unfair, but this time they have got there in time.

  The beams from other torches announce the arrival of the paramedics. Judith struggles to her feet and looks on as they lay Tim on the stretcher – two young men and a woman doctor, their faces etched with pity and horror. Her knees tremble as she follows them up the concrete stairs into the grey afternoon light. Judith sees patrol officers, Karin and Klaus from Forensics and Karl-Heinz Müller. The sight of the forensic pathologist makes Judith’s knees tremble more than ever.

  ‘Don’t worry, I only wanted to see the place where Jonny died.’ Karl-Heinz takes Judith’s arm and leads her to the remains of a wall where he lights a Davidoff for her and hands her his silver hip flask. She takes one cautious sip and then another. The schnapps bites her throat, but it does its job, like the whisky that morning outside David’s hut. Gradually her trembling subsides.

  Manni and Hagen Petermann are sitting at a conference table in the offices of Petermann’s Construction Company opposite; in the next room, patrol officers are loading files into cardboard boxes. The bruise on Manni’s chin has a blue sheen to it, and the wounds on his hands are weeping. Too many wounds, thinks Judith, and for a moment her longing for David is so intense, it’s as if their lovemaking in his blue wooden house and their evening on the lake together are the only reality that counts.

  ‘It was me,’ says Hagen Petermann, tonelessly. ‘You have my confession. What more do you want?’

  ‘Tell me why.’ Manni fixes the man with the gaze of a highly irritable, wounded bull.

  ‘It was me. Now leave me in peace.’

  Neither of the men seems to notice Judith; they are both too deep in their duel, whose rules she can only guess at. Petermann’s face looks grey. The light has gone out of his eyes since they got him to open the door to Tim’s dungeon and he began to scream.

  The doctor’s car is still parked in the yard. Tim’s parents are waiting beside it like two lost children.

  ‘What should we do?’ Tim’s mother asks when she spots Judith.

  ‘Be glad your son’s alive. Love him. Go and live by the sea with him. Talk to Tim’s psychologist.’

  That is too little and too heartless, but she hasn’t the strength for any more. She returns to Tim’s dungeon at the far end of the extensive grounds behind Petermann’s offices. Königsforst begins immediately beyond; it’s only a few kilometres to the shelter and the fishing pond. The cellar is an old bunker, a patrol officer explains to her, a relic of the Second World War, built of metre-thick concrete, so that unlike the house that once stood here, which is now only ruined walls, it was able to withstand the bombs. A steel door secures the entrance.

  ‘Who has a key?’ asks Judith, but the patrol officer can’t tell her that.

  Again, she descends the steps into the stinking hell which is now flooded with artificial light from the forensic team’s work lamps. Brutal light illuminates the bare concrete walls and the soiled mattress, the trails and handprints on the walls and floor, the smears of blood and faeces.

  ‘Don’t go any further,’ Karin warns, carefully pushing a strand of hair back under her cap with a latex-gloved hand.

  ‘Have you found anything?’ The smears are everywhere. Judith keeps her eyes fixed on Karin’s white overalls.

  ‘A lot of fingerprints – and not just the victim’s.’

  ‘Can you try to get a quick match? Ralf Neisser, Viktor Petermann, his father and, of course, Jonny. I need to know who was down here.’

  Sitting on the ruined walls of the bombed house, Judith has the feeling she’ll never get the smell of the bunker out of her nose. Again she is gripped by dizziness and exhaustion. She lets her head drop onto her knees, but immediately recoils – her trouser legs are soaked from the wet mattress. She borrows a Swiss army knife with a pair of scissors from one of the patrol officers, cuts off the trouser legs above the knees and fling
s them away from her. Even so, the stench seems to linger and the smears on the walls are branded into her memory. Blood, faeces, urine – the last and deeply human answers to uncontrolled violence.

  Karin appears at her side. Judith starts and reaches instinctively for her tobacco. ‘We’ve found fingerprints from Ralf Neisser and Viktor Petermann on the door and doorframe,’ Karin says. ‘There are also some from Hagen Petermann, but not nearly as many. As for inside the bunker, it’s going to be a while until we have results.’

  She returns to the cellar and Judith lights herself a cigarette, hoping to assuage her dizziness. What had Tim’s psychologist say about bullies? The feeling of inadequacy. Their inability to feel pity. Fathers who are out of reach, but who nevertheless – or for that very reason – become idols. Cold, insatiable gods. But what if the god falls from heaven? Or, worse still, what if a fearless boy threatens to topple the paternal god?

  Tim’s psychologist doesn’t hesitate with his answer. ‘Threatened in that way, a son would defend the honour of his father,’ he says. ‘At any cost.’

  ‘Even if he doesn’t feel respected by his father?’

  ‘Especially then.’

  ‘And if he fails?’

  Joachim Wallert’s silence is answer enough for Judith. She stamps out her half-smoked cigarette, sets off even before she’s said goodbye and storms back to Manni and Hagen Petermann, who are still caught up in their power struggle. She ignores Manni’s warning head shake, grabs Petermann by the shoulder and yells at him.

  ‘Where’s Viktor? Where’s your son?’

  He shakes his head, doesn’t reply. She hurries back to the corridor. Manni hobbles out after her.

  ‘It wasn’t Hagen Petermann,’ she says, once they are out of earshot of the conference room.

  ‘I know.’ Manni looks pale; the bruise on his chin is gleaming. ‘But I bloody well want him to admit it.’

  ‘Later. First we have to find Viktor – fast. He must know by now that he has lost.’

  Manni shakes himself as if he were waking from a dream. His voice sounds strained. ‘He must be frantic. He’ll kill himself – himself or somebody else.’

  ‘Ivonne!’ Judith begins to run.

  *

  Judith drives like a demon. The blue light from the police car in front of them flickers across her face. She throws Manni her phone, grips the wheel even tighter and skids round a bend.

  ‘Ivonne’s mobile number is in there under Calls.’

  Manni finds the number and tries to ring Ivonne but only gets her voicemail.

  ‘Directory Enquiries,’ hisses Judith. ‘Get put through to her parents.’

  But they’ve already reached the house. Judith dashes out of the car and leans on the doorbell. Even before Manni has caught up with her, he can see from the way her body relaxes that Viktor’s girlfriend is safe. Ivonne huddles shyly at her mother’s side; there is almost no sign of yesterday’s coolness.

  ‘We’ve found Tim. He’s alive.’ Judith Krieger swallows.

  The girl begins to tremble.

  ‘But now I’m looking for Viktor,’ says Judith, urgently. ‘I think he may be desperate and in need of help. Has he been in touch with you? Do you know where he is?’

  More trembling, then a barely audible whisper: ‘Maybe on the school roof. We sometimes meet there. Vik has a key.’

  Again Judith demonstrates her racing driver’s skills – this time without the blue light escort, because she’s asked the patrol officers to stay behind and keep an eye on Ivonne. Bertolt Brecht Grammar School looks deserted; the iron gates are locked. The crisis conference is clearly over.

  ‘Ring the control centre and get them to track down the caretaker or the headmaster. I’ll have a look around.’ Judith cuts the engine and leaps out into the car park without waiting for Manni to reply. He watches her go as he waits for the control centre to call him back – her tanned calves, her absurdly mutilated trousers, her matted curls. His knee seems to be swelling by the minute, and he feels a twinge of pain in his thigh. He thinks of Judith cowering in the stinking cellar, talking to the boy. He would never have thought her capable of such tenderness.

  The control centre puts him through to the caretaker, who promises to hurry. Judith returns and drops back onto the driver’s seat.

  ‘There is someone up on the roof. Right at the top. Walking around, looking down. That’s as much as I can make out.’

  ‘Male? Light-blond hair?’

  She nods. ‘I’ve asked for reinforcements. Squad colleagues, fire brigade, psych services – the whole shebang.’

  ‘That won’t work.’

  ‘I know.’ She looks at Manni. ‘I have to get up there.’

  His leg is in agony, his head is buzzing, his hands are on fire. But Manni doesn’t care, because his subconscious has finally got through to him; he knows what it’s saying.

  ‘Let me go,’ he says. ‘My father’s just died. I know how Viktor feels.’

  ‘Hagen Petermann isn’t dead!’

  ‘Please. Trust me.’

  A grey-haired man toddles up to them waving a bunch of keys.

  ‘The caretaker!’ Judith makes to get out of the car.

  Manni grabs her arm. ‘Let me do it. Please!’

  She looks at him with her inscrutable grey eyes.

  ‘I’ll keep the others off your back for a while,’ she says eventually, and for some reason that Manni can’t explain to himself, he is so relieved he could burst into tears there and then.

  But this isn’t the time for such nonsense. He gives the caretaker a nod and sets off across the playground, ignoring the pain as best he can. Looking up at the building, he sees five floors of windows and stone, surmounted by a flat roof – high enough to kill you.

  For the second time in a day, Manni is faced with a flight of concrete stairs, but these are wider and lead up, not down into a bunker where two boys suffered hellish torments. Every step Manni takes sends hot lava gushing into his knee. He clenches his teeth and feels the sweat pouring down his neck.

  ‘This takes you onto the first roof,’ says the caretaker. ‘To get right to the top you have to use the fire escape ladder.’

  The air is as grey as Judith’s eyes. An aeroplane pierces the clouds. A bird screeches. There is no sign of Viktor. Manni hobbles across the flat roof to the fire escape ladder and grabs the metal struts, which glow hot in his hands. He pulls himself up, dragging his bad leg behind him, his heart pounding as hard as during the morning’s chase. He can bring the job to an end to now. He mustn’t botch it. This is his only chance.

  He reaches the second roof and stops to size up the situation. Viktor is only a few metres away from him, very close to the edge. He is smoking a cigarette and staring down. Manni gets to his feet and straightens up. The boy wheels round. Shock, recognition and fear distort his face; instinctively he takes a few steps towards Manni. Then he gets a grip on himself again.

  ‘I’m going to jump,’ he says. ‘Stay where you are.’

  Manni raises his hands in what he hopes is a reassuring gesture. A few paces’ run up and a mae tobi geri would be enough to floor Viktor. But the distance is too great and the edge of the roof too close. Viktor isn’t going to let Manni out of his sight, and Manni’s jumping leg is as good as fucked.

  ‘My father used to hit my mother when he was in a bad mood,’ says Manni. ‘He hit me too. He wasn’t even nice to me when it was my birthday. Once he gave me a bag of yellow gummy bears. I ate them all at once because I was afraid he’d take them away from me again. Afterwards I puked.’

  Down below, in the distance, a siren wails. Manni hopes Judith can prevent Millstätt from launching a major operation, because more police would only drive Viktor over the edge; he can feel it. Manni inches closer to the boy.

  ‘Stay where you are, cop!’ Viktor retreats a step. ‘What do I care about your old man?’

  He won’t make it; he can’t stop Viktor. It was a mistake to try to go it alone; he’s no psych
ologist, he should have listened to Judith for once. Judith Krieger, who was brought back to the fold even after her fall from grace – the super detective with the legendary negotiating skills. She let him go first although she’s still a long way off being rehabilitated herself, he tells himself. She trusted him. At least he thinks that’s what he read in her eyes just now.

  ‘Cop,’ says Manni. ‘That’s what my father called me. The last time I saw him he even spat at me for being a cop.’

  Another siren. Viktor’s eyes flicker. Again a bird screeches, ugly and hoarse, perhaps a magpie.

  ‘I don’t know why, but I always wanted to be a cop,’ Manni goes on. ‘As soon as I realised that I had no chance of making a career as a cowboy. Maybe I imagined it would give me the power to stop my father’s beatings.’

  Viktor looks at him, watchful, thoughtful. A shot in the knee would slow the boy down. They’d be on a par then – two lame men, weighed down by burdensome fathers.

  ‘It didn’t work, of course,’ says Manni. ‘My father ended up in a wheelchair; that was the only reason the beatings stopped. But I stayed a cop all the same.’

  ‘Why?’ Viktor takes a small step towards Manni.

  Because it’s so damn important to save this murderer? Manni doesn’t know why, but he suddenly knows he has to.

  ‘Being a cop is all I can do,’ he says. ‘What do you want to be, Viktor? What’s your dream?’

  The boy shrugs; the shutters go down again.

  ‘You’re expected to take over your father’s company and live out your father’s dream, aren’t you? But you don’t want to.’

  Viktor spits. ‘Who gives a fuck?’

  A shot is too dangerous; he must try the mae tobi geri, jumping off his left leg, although it’s his weaker jumping leg, and using his injured leg as a battering ram. He started karate training so as to be able to hit back when his father turned violent. By the time he had got that far, it was no longer necessary and it won him no respect from his father either. Manni shifts his weight to inch closer to the boy, sending pinpricks of pain into his knee. He’s still too far away.