Norah watched, rapt.
‘But whatever happens,’ he added—and there was a sudden tone of urgency in his voice, which Norah hadn’t noticed before—‘do not let go of the torch. Switch it on when I tell you to and be very, very careful not to turn it off. Do you understand?’
Norah saw her best friend nod.
‘May I?’ the magician asked, and he took Valerie’s hand and led her to the cage.
When she was inside, he closed the door with a bolt and padlock and took a step back.
Valerie stood in the middle of the cage, quite calm, her little figure silhouetted against the light. Norah’s heart was pounding as if it were trying to leap right out of her chest. She didn’t know why. She knew it wasn’t real magic; she was old enough to understand that magicians work with tricks and trapdoors and sleights of hand. And yet.
‘My dear,’ the magician said. ‘Do you think you are strong enough to break out of that cage?’
Valerie shrugged.
‘Give it a try,’ said the magician.
Valerie stepped up to the edge of the cage and tried to squeeze her dainty body through the bars, but they were too close together. She shook at the door which the magician had secured with a padlock, but the cage remained locked.
‘I ask you again,’ the magician said. ‘Do you think you are strong enough to break out of that cage?’
‘No,’ said Valerie.
‘All right then.’
He turned to the audience.
‘I am going to make Norah disappear. For that, ladies and gentlemen, I need darkness and absolute silence and concentration. Without those things, there is a possibility that I won’t be able to bring back our little friend.’
In front of Norah, in the next-to-last row, Ruth gasped audibly.
‘And you, my dear, I would now ask you to switch on your torch and point it at the audience. Please remember not to turn it off.’
Valerie nodded and switched on the torch.
‘Now then,’ said the magician.
He closed his eyes as if he were going into a kind of trance. Then, without opening them, he took a few steps away from the cage and raised his arms. The lights went out. Some of the children made sounds of surprise, then giggled loudly to show they weren’t afraid. Then there was silence again, as they remembered the magician’s instructions. Valerie traced circles in the air with the torch—big circles and small ones. Norah saw her friend’s eyes sparkling in the darkness; she was clearly enjoying herself. Norah even thought she saw her smile and, instinctively, she smiled back.
The moment dragged on. Valerie started to trace figures of eight with the torch in the dark—and then suddenly, the torch went out. Norah heard sharp in-drawings of breath all around her. Darkness. Complete darkness. Norah’s heart beat faster and faster and she blinked frantically as if to force her eyes to accustom themselves to the dark. She sensed the other children’s excitement, close to flipping over into fear. Valerie—where was Valerie?
‘Behind you,’ said Valerie and Norah felt her breath warm on her neck.
Norah started awake.
She blinked into the blackness. Shapes in the dark. Removal boxes, Vienna, her new flat, her new life—of course. A glance at her watch. Just gone two. She got up with a sigh, went into the kitchen and drank a few mouthfuls of water straight from the tap. She was cold, barefoot, dressed in only a baggy sweatshirt. The heating was on, but it wasn’t properly warm. Norah went back to the bedroom, sat down on the bed and wrapped the quilt over her shoulders.
Her thoughts wandered to Valerie. She had never told Norah how the trick had worked. Because I promised, she said. Because you like tormenting me, Norah had always replied, only half-jokingly. And it was true that for a long time she couldn’t stop wondering how the magician had done it. She’d always loved any kind of puzzle or mystery, going at them obsessively until she cracked them—and it drove her crazy that Valerie knew the solution and she didn’t. Had there been a tunnel? A secret door? But how could Valerie have moved so quickly?
The memory was still fresh. After Valerie’s sudden reappearance behind Norah, everything had happened quickly. The lights went up again on the empty cage; there were cries of surprise from the other children. And before Norah could say anything, Valerie was walking down the central aisle and onto the stage where the magician welcomed her back with a little speech about teleporting and asked her how she’d got on in the realm of shadows.
Norah hadn’t thought about that afternoon for a long time. Years later she discovered not only that the magician was a fairly famous conjuror who usually did adult shows, but also that he was Valerie’s uncle. When Valerie refused, even as a teenager, to tell Norah how he’d done it, Norah began to realise that she probably didn’t know herself. But all her life, Valerie had remained obsessed with disappearing and was forever saying that she’d vanish into thin air some day. You can’t leave me, Norah would say. What would I do without you? I’d be lost.
It was true. Valerie had been her best friend since kindergarten and she’d never again had anyone who had made her feel understood in quite that way. Yes, all right, Sandra was a good friend. But it wasn’t the same. Typical Valerie phrases popped into Norah’s mind. If you run away, I’ll come with you—after a bad fight between Norah and her mum. I’ll kill him for you if you like—after Norah had caught her first boyfriend Nico snogging that bitch from another class. And, over and over again: Promise we’ll be friends forever. Swear to me.
And Norah had sworn.
Was it the age they were? Could unconditional friendship exist only between children and teenagers who were still free from the demands of everyday life, not yet worn down by the constant struggle for compromise?
Norah went into the kitchen and climbed onto a chair to get down the book she’d hidden in the cupboard. She ran her fingers over the cover of this book that had once been Valerie’s and the image of a frozen lake at night flashed into her mind. The scene of all Norah’s nightmares. Her throat tightened. Her eyes slid over the big black letters of the title.
How to Disappear Completely.
33
Norah stood at the kitchen window smoking. At least there was no one to complain about the cigarette smoke on her breath—that was something. She breathed a smoke ring into the evening sky, and then a second to slide through the first. She could still do it. Down below, walking past, she saw Marie, the young woman with the sad eyes who worked in the newsagent’s. Shoulders drooping, eyes on the ground. Norah choked up when she saw her. Then Marie disappeared from view and Norah’s thoughts drifted to the previous day. Why had she been so disturbed by the man at the zebra crossing? She kept seeing his face, hearing his voice. My God, Valerie!
Norah and Valerie hadn’t looked anything like one another, but that hadn’t stopped them from being like sisters. Even today, after all that had happened, Norah still felt it fair to say that no one had loved her as unconditionally as Valerie.
She recalled the conversation she’d had with Theresa the other day. It’s true, she thought, I attract women I can’t help. And it all began with Valerie; she was the first. The pain was so sudden and so keen that Norah found herself gasping for breath.
She must stop thinking about the past. The man at the crossing had made a mistake, that was all. Such things happened. How many Valeries must there be in Vienna? Hundreds? Thousands? One of them looked like Norah. So what? She must calm down. She must stop dwelling on it.
And she needed a drink.
When she woke the next morning, Norah was cuddled up to Alex, her belly against his back. It was lovely, feeling his warmth in the chilly bedroom.
But like a silk dress that is shrugged to the floor, the dream slid off her and she realised that something was wrong. Startled, she moved away with a jolt from the warm body in her bed and opened her eyes. A shock of dark hair, a bare back, pale skin, a scattering of moles. It all came back to her. She’d gone to the fridge the evening before for a bottle of wi
ne and found it empty—then stormed out of the house and into the first bar she’d come to. She remembered the barman with the lovely dark eyes, apparently from his Japanese mum, and the gorgeous Viennese accent (from his dad).
What was the matter with her? Why was she suddenly acting like a ditsy student?
You’re trying to get Alex out of your system. And you’re failing miserably.
Norah rolled onto her back, trying not to think of Alex, and faked sleep until the man had gone.
Then she went into the bathroom to have a shower. In the mirror she looked at the new tattoo, which was now almost completely healed and only slightly itchy. She suddenly remembered the guy asking her about it in bed. Is it a swallow? She had only shaken her head.
Over a cappuccino and croissant in the corner bistro, Norah skimmed the newspaper. In the culture section she found a brief obituary of the actor Dorotea Lechner. A photo showed her—presumably some time ago—on the stage of a small independent theatre. An actor who fell on hard times and took to drinking, then ended up having to beg to make ends meet. The story Norah had been chasing was so much sadder than she had expected. And so much shorter.
Somehow she got through the day, doing her best not to think of anything but work. In the late afternoon, she had an appointment with a local politician who had set himself the task of getting as many homeless people off the streets as possible. Norah interviewed him in his office, then headed for the nearest tram stop. It was growing dark and she had to pause for a moment to get her bearings. She was in a part of Vienna where she’d never been before. To her left was a busy road and to her right a park, which now, in February, was more grey than green. Behind the trees a big wheel rose up into the sky. The Prater!
Curious, Norah set off across the grass and was soon standing at the foot of the big wheel. She stared up at the vast construction, imagining the cars full of shrieking teenagers and soppy couples. Then her eyes strayed over the surrounding area. Stretched out before her with its booths and rides was the fairground—the Wurstlprater to those in the know, although it was what most tourists meant when they talked about ‘the Prater’. Norah wandered off down the twisty lanes between the booths. Rides, food stalls, Test-Your-Strength, souvenirs.
A bit of a walk would do her good, help her to unwind. For days she’d been able to think of nothing but Grimm. When she’d heard that he had made it to the police station before her, she’d been desperate; even Sandra couldn’t calm her down.
I’ll finish you off. I mean it.
Arthur Grimm was not the kind of man to play games, Norah was sure of that. He was deadly serious. The only question was why? Why was he so aggressive towards her? What did he think he knew about her? And what about Dorotea Lechner? Had she and Grimm known each other? Had he maybe…? No, Norah told herself sharply. Lechner’s death was an accident. The police had said so. It was a fact. And Norah was a journalist, not a conspiracy theorist. She stuck to facts.
Perhaps none of it had anything to do with her. Perhaps Grimm was mentally disturbed, paranoid. But she didn’t believe it. She was sure he had some reason for behaving towards her the way he had. What really got to her, though, was the feeling that she was staring at the solution without seeing it—unable to see the wood for the trees.
To her left was the first roller coaster, its red rails bright against the blue winter sky. To her right was the ghost train. Norah smiled—she’d always loved ghost trains as a child. Next to a sign saying Tickets was a picture of the grim reaper and Norah was reminded of the tarot card she had found in the Imperial. She went on her way.
Shooting gallery, bumper cars, swings. Postcards with your photo.
Norah turned around. So this was the Prater. She headed slowly for the exit. Back on the street, she hailed a taxi. The Prater, with its big wheel and all the booths and ghosts and shadows disappeared behind her, but she didn’t look back.
Twenty minutes later, she was home.
Norah unlocked the front door and set off up the stairs. Halfway up, though, she stopped and turned back—she’d forgotten to check the post.
In her letterbox was a photo of Valerie.
34
She woke knowing it was the middle of the night; some primitive instinct told her that she was at the darkest point in the day’s cycle.
She didn’t open her eyes, didn’t move. Pretending was something she had learnt at an early age. If you held yourself in the right way and acted confident, you really did feel better in the end. If you were caring and friendly towards someone, you sooner or later felt genuinely fond of them. And if you pretended to sleep—lay calm and relaxed, and concentrated on breathing slowly—you often really did fall asleep.
Norah lay there, thinking of Valerie. She tried not to think of anything, but the events of the last few days pushed their way to the surface, and scenes and faces flashed into her mind—a series of rapidly cut shots, like footage of a fairground ride spinning faster and faster, slinging its passengers out of its orbit, their arms and legs flying.
She vaguely remembered dreaming. Something about Valerie, she thought. Wasn’t it? She tried to focus on the cosy warmth under the covers, on the reassuring knowledge that she’d had the lock changed—that she was safe in her own flat again. She strained her senses for some sign of Theresa, asleep in the flat above. But was she even at home? All evening, Norah had missed the familiar creak of the old floorboards overhead as Theresa moved from room to room. She was probably out again. Norah wondered what she was doing.
And by then she knew she wasn’t going to get back to sleep. Not this time.
She turned on the light and screwed up her eyes. The photo lay on the floor by her bed, blurred, faded and yellowing. A smiling teenager. Summer. Shorts and a singlet. Norah had forgotten all about the photo. Who had sent it to her? Why was Valerie suddenly all over the place? Theresa, who looked so startlingly similar. The stranger at the crossing who had called Norah by her name. The old dreams. And now the photo.
Barefoot and dressed in only briefs and a sweatshirt, Norah went into the kitchen for a glass of water and began to shiver almost immediately; she’d switched the heating off when she went to bed. She fetched her dressing gown, which had turned up the day before in one of the removal boxes, put it on, and opened the kitchen window. Breathing in the fresh night air, she had a kind of inspiration.
She grabbed her phone and began to write.
Was that you?
She raised her eyes to the window and looked out. Someone had put junk out on the pavement for collection: a bike, a bed frame, an old armchair, a guitar. Norah found herself thinking of Valerie again, but the dream that had woken her remained elusive, just out of reach.
Norah returned to her phone and was surprised to see three bouncing dots on the screen telling her she had a reply.
Was what me? she read.
Was it you sent me that?
This time she had to wait longer for a response, but soon the bouncing dots told her that at the other end—wherever that might be—someone was typing.
The photo? Yes.
Interesting. The fact itself, for one thing—that this someone had sent her the photo of Valerie. But also the disarming frankness of the confession.
Why? she asked.
Because I wanted you to remember.
Resisting the urge to reach for her cigarettes, Norah closed the window.
Who are you? Where did you get the photo? she typed.
And then, because she could bear it no longer:
What do you know about Valerie?
At first there was no response. Then the dots bounced up and down on the screen again.
May I ask you a question?
Norah thought for a moment. Then she typed:
Go ahead.
She waited, tensely curious. Nothing. After staring at her phone for several minutes, she put it down—and at that moment, the next text arrived.
Are you sure it was suicide?
She almost drop
ped her phone. She closed her eyes and waited until she felt a little calmer. Then she opened them again.
What do you mean? she asked.
But staring at her phone brought no reply. Thinking hard, she sat down at her desk and got out the file with the printouts of all the information that Werner had compiled on Arthur Grimm. The moment she held it in her hand, she knew that it was the contents of this file that had given her subconscious no peace; over and over, even in her sleep, her brain had opened this file and read it through and pondered it, until at last it had found what it was looking for.
Norah studied everything again, making an effort to read with an open mind—not to skim the names and dates and places or the bits she knew by heart, but to focus on every word.
Arthur Grimm. Born in Frankfurt on 19 December 1974, the only child of Christa and Jochen Grimm. Primary school. Secondary school. Leaving examinations. Applied to various acting schools but was rejected. Military service. Began a degree in mechanical engineering. Switched to pure engineering. Graduation. A series of internships during and after university and eventually a first permanent position in Munich.
Hang on. There was something there. Like a little barb that she snagged on. What had she just read? The list of some of the essays Grimm had written at university…the names of the firms where he’d worked as an intern…his dissertation at Wilkau Engineering…
That was it. Grimm had written his dissertation in cooperation with Wilkau Engineering. Where had she heard that name before? Norah sat quite still, as if afraid that a sudden movement might frighten off the thought that was taking shape in her mind.
Yes, something was stirring. The name rang a bell. Had she read it in the papers? Had the firm been involved in a scandal? Or had she known someone who worked there? No, she’d remember that. Norah closed her eyes and decided to call up her own thoughts on the subject before resorting to Google and drowning all the information in her head with a flood of search results. But she got nowhere and eventually gave up.
Wilkau Engineering. The only Google entry of any relevance was the company’s homepage. No scandal, no flotation, no mass layoff. Nothing like that.
The Shadow Page 13