The Shadow

by Melanie Raabe

  If I fail maths, I’ll throw myself in front of a train.

  If my parents split up, I’ll jump off the dam.

  How was Norah to know that she really meant it this time?

  Norah hunched her shoulders and thrust her hands deep into her coat pockets, but she shivered all the same. She strode out, walking fast to warm up. It had taken her four hours to drive here. Strange, she thought, that something she’d been putting off for twenty years should suddenly be so urgent. Now that she’d made up her mind to do it, she felt compelled to get it over with as quickly as possible.

  She had called in sick. Her friends would have to wait till she was back in Vienna; she’d tell them everything then. She’d had a quick word with Sandra, promising to go and see her soon, and she had taken Sandra’s advice and spoken to the police and to a lawyer she’d recommended. Then she had rung Max and asked him and Paul for dinner at the weekend.

  About twenty minutes later, Norah had reached her destination. Valerie’s parents’ house was just the way she remembered it: a pretty terraced house with a well-kept front garden. Of course, there was no longer a family of four living here with their dog; Monika was on her own now. But it didn’t feel any different. Norah had at the very least expected it to seem smaller, like most childhood places she revisited. But only the smell had changed. The smell of cooking that used to fill the house was gone, replaced by a hint of parquet cleaner.

  Norah sat on the pink sofa opposite Monika. Since Norah had last seen her, Monika had lost a lot of weight, but not in a bad way. She looked radiant and fit—a woman who had reinvented herself.

  ‘You look stunning,’ Norah said awkwardly, taking a sip of her milky coffee.

  It was true, but she’d been expecting the soft, motherly woman of her memories. She still had to get used to this new Monika.

  The new Monika smiled and Norah knew that any second now she would ask her how she was, what had brought her to the area and so on. She knew, too, that she’d probably reply evasively to avoid having to broach the subject she had come here to broach—and end up leaving for home without having achieved anything.

  ‘There’s something I have to tell you,’ Norah said, before she could change her mind.

  ‘Oh?’ Monika said, sipping her tea.

  ‘It’s about Valerie,’ said Norah.

  Her bag was next to her on the sofa. On a chest of drawers, behind Monika, stood family photos from happier days. Norah tried not to look.

  ‘I don’t know if you knew,’ she went on, ‘but in the class above us at school, there was this boy all the girls were crazy about. Including me. And Valerie.’

  Monika smiled.

  ‘I remember. What was his name again?’

  ‘Milo.’

  She gave a loud laugh.

  ‘Milo, that’s right. Goodness, he thought he was cool, didn’t he, with his gelled hair and his mirrored shades.’

  She smiled.

  ‘It’s sometimes hard for parents to relate to their daughters’ tastes.’

  Norah ignored this remark, determined not to let Monika distract her. She felt her fingers start to tremble and pressed them against her thighs.

  ‘I was going out with him back then,’ she said. ‘Valerie really resented it.’

  This time Monika said nothing, but she was still smiling.

  ‘Do you remember how amazed we all were that Valerie didn’t leave a note?’

  A shadow passed over Monika’s face.

  ‘That wasn’t actually true. There was a letter. And…’

  She had thought carefully about what she would say, but now she couldn’t find the words.

  ‘I should have said something. I should have told the police. I should have told you. But I couldn’t. I couldn’t bring myself to do it.’

  She reached over to her bag, took out the envelope and held it out to Monika.

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  Valerie’s mother looked at it without moving a muscle.

  ‘This was from Valerie?’ she asked.

  Norah nodded.

  ‘She must have brought it round before she…’

  She couldn’t say the words.

  Monika took the letter from Norah, slowly, cautiously, as if it might snap at her.

  ‘It was my fault,’ said Norah. ‘She killed herself because of me. And I didn’t even have the decency to tell her family—’

  She broke off, feeling Monika’s eyes on her.

  ‘You’ve had it all this time,’ Monika said. ‘Almost twenty years.’

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ Norah whispered.

  She looked up and saw Monika running her fingers over Valerie’s writing on the envelope.

  ‘You can read it, if you like,’ Norah said and then neither of them spoke for a long time.

  Norah sat there with lowered head. She heard the rustle of paper as Monika took the letter out of the envelope and unfolded it, and she closed her eyes while Monika read. Then she heard the soft rustle of skin on paper again and didn’t dare look up. She heard a gentle click in Monika’s throat as she swallowed; she heard a car drive past outside; she heard the metallic tick of Monika’s watch.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Norah said. ‘I don’t know what to say.’

  For a long time Monika sat frozen on her chair. Then she got up and left the room without a word. She was gone some minutes; Norah began to think she wasn’t ever coming back, but then she heard footsteps and Monika reappeared with a book in her hand. As she came nearer, Norah saw that it was the first Harry Potter. Monika sat down. She seemed slower than before—older, more fragile.

  She looked calmly at Norah.

  ‘Do you remember how much you girls loved this book?’ she asked.

  ‘Of course. Gryffindor forever!’ said Norah, laughing dully. ‘But what—’

  Monika blinked a few tears away.

  ‘There’s no good place for a thing like this,’ she said. ‘I mean, cutlery belongs in the cutlery drawer, insurance documents belong in a folder in the study. Holiday photos belong in an album. But where do you keep your daughter’s suicide note?’

  Norah didn’t understand what Monika was trying to say. Monika hesitated for a second, then opened the book. It fell open in the middle and there was an envelope between the pages. Monika took it out and hesitated again for a moment before holding it out to Norah. The handwriting was instantly recognisable—that big loopy M. But it didn’t say Mum or Monika; it said Mother.

  Norah felt sick.

  ‘You got one too,’ she said tonelessly.

  ‘Me, my husband, Sven…Probably everyone she loved.’

  Norah felt her mouth hanging open.

  ‘But the police said—’

  ‘It was none of their business,’ Monika said firmly, pressing her lips together.

  ‘Do you know what borderline personality disorder is?’ she asked at length and Norah nodded, although the words sounded very far away.

  ‘Valerie was undergoing treatment, Norah,’ Monika said. ‘She didn’t talk about it and neither did we. Not to anyone, not even to you. Maybe that was a mistake. I’m sure people deal differently with these things nowadays. But that’s how it was back then.’

  Carefully, very carefully, she slipped the letter back into the book and put it down beside her.

  ‘It wasn’t your fault, Norah,’ said Monika. ‘It wasn’t mine either. Not just mine, anyway. Valerie was sick.’

  She sighed.

  ‘People with borderline suffer from unbearable feelings and anxiety. A lot of them harm themselves or attempt suicide.’

  She was silent for a moment.

  ‘There’s a common pattern in the relationships of people with borderline. Do you know what it is?’

  Norah shook her head.

  ‘First they worship their friends and partners. Then, at the slightest provocation, they start to demonise them. For them there’s only black or white, good or evil.’

  Monika sighed again.

  ‘If you’d
talked to me,’ she added, ‘I could have told you eighteen years ago.’

  Norah didn’t reply. Something in her chest had come adrift and was fluttering around wildly.

  ‘Have you ever spoken to anyone about it?’ Monika asked.

  Norah shook her head.

  ‘No,’ she said, ‘never.’

  ‘All these years, you’ve thought you were to blame?’

  Norah didn’t know what to say or feel. She said nothing.

  Then she said, ‘Valerie was a wonderful girl.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Monika. ‘She was.’

  ‘I ought to be going,’ Norah said, getting up. Monika got up too.

  ‘May I give you some advice?’ she asked and Norah looked at her.

  ‘Answer the letter.’

  66

  When Norah arrived back in Vienna late that evening, it was mild, almost spring-like. She had spent the best part of the day on the motorway and was so tired she felt numb all over. Luckily there was an empty parking space right outside the flat. As she parked the car, a loud beep announced an incoming text. She registered with annoyance that part of her was still hoping for a reply from Alex, but it was only Monika, thanking her for coming. Norah wrote back and texted Sandra, too, to let her know she was home safe and sound. (Sandra’s dad had died in a car crash and she didn’t like to think of her friends on the road.) Then she unlocked the front door and began to trudge up the stairs. Someone was coming down. Norah stopped when she realised who it was. Theresa.

  Theresa froze too.

  ‘Oh,’ she said, embarrassed. ‘Hi.’

  Norah gave her a nod.

  ‘You’re moving out,’ she said.

  ‘Not exactly,’ Theresa replied.

  ‘True,’ Norah said. ‘I guess you never really lived here.’

  Theresa nodded, avoiding Norah’s eyes.

  ‘Have you…’ Norah began.

  ‘Heard from Balder? No. No one has. But I spoke to Bela. You know, Kim 5. He went to Balder’s studio the morning after to pick up some stuff he’d left there and it was so loud, he didn’t dare knock. He said it was terrifying—shouting and crashing, as if someone was on the rampage.’

  Norah said nothing.

  ‘I’ve asked around a bit,’ Theresa went on. ‘He’ll lose his professorship. And the video went viral. The whole net’s laughing at him. Wolfgang Balder, King of the Memes.’

  She grinned.

  ‘And that comedian, you know the one I mean, the ginger guy who does that late-night show? I don’t actually like him—too malicious for me. But Balder loves him. Never misses him. Anyway, he did a sketch about Balder last night. Something about geriatric nappies. I’d love to have seen his face.’

  Norah didn’t comment.

  ‘Was it you posted the video?’ she asked.

  Theresa shook her head. Norah smiled in spite of herself. Coco.

  ‘Okay then…’

  She pushed past Theresa.

  ‘Norah?’

  Norah turned to face her again.

  ‘I’m sorry. I don’t know what else to say.’

  Norah looked her in the eyes.

  ‘It’s all right,’ she said.

  They nodded at each other and Theresa turned to go, clearly uneasy.

  ‘One more thing,’ said Norah. ‘No, two.’

  Theresa looked at her almost fearfully.

  ‘My colleague. How did you get her to mention Arthur Grimm?’

  ‘I don’t remember involving a colleague. There was Balder, me, Kim 5, Cassandra, the woman who played Grimm’s ex, a passer-by we hired to speak to you on the street, a few video technicians, some research assistants and Balder’s theatre-director mate who agreed to give you an interview to get you to the Prater. I think that was all.’

  Norah nodded slowly.

  ‘Maybe it was a coincidence?’ Theresa suggested.

  Yes, Norah thought.

  ‘And the second thing?’ Theresa asked.

  ‘How did you lead me to Grimm’s office? I chose the dentist myself—completely by chance. No one recommended it to me and no one knew I was going. Nobody.’

  Theresa’s face brightened.

  ‘Your emails,’ she said. ‘You were sent an email to remind you of your appointment.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘That wasn’t Grimm’s office.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘We knew you had an appointment in that building. So we went round a few hours before you were due and put up the plaque. Arthur Grimm actually works somewhere else.’

  She grinned.

  ‘It was risky. But it worked.’

  ‘Your idea?’ Norah asked.

  Theresa nodded reluctantly, half contrite, half proud.

  ‘Goodbye Theresa. You’re damned clever. Don’t waste it.’

  Again Norah turned to go.

  ‘Why aren’t you angrier?’ Theresa asked.

  ‘Oh, believe me, I’m angry with you. Angrier than you can know.’ ‘So why don’t you show it?’

  ‘Maybe I think you’ve earned a second chance,’ Norah said. ‘Or maybe I’m just too tired.’

  ‘Why are you still nice to me?’

  Norah shrugged.

  ‘Someone once said, There’s a special place in hell for women who don’t help other women.’

  ‘Madeleine Albright,’ Theresa said. ‘I think.’

  ‘Told you you were clever,’ Norah said.

  Her eyes narrowed.

  ‘You got away this time, Kim. Make the most of it.’

  ‘And if I don’t?’

  ‘A contract killing costs about twenty thousand euros,’ she said. ‘It’s an urban myth that you can have someone murdered for two or three grand; I’ve looked into it. You have to put up twenty thousand.’

  Theresa stared at her, not sure if she was joking.

  ‘I’ll be honest with you,’ Norah went on. ‘I don’t have that kind of money.’ She pushed her hair out of her forehead. ‘But a shot in the kneecap starts at about three and a half, and I think I could manage that.’

  Theresa grinned.

  ‘I mean it,’ Norah said.

  ‘I know. After all, you are the High Priestess of Evil.’

  ‘Exactly. So don’t disappoint me.’

  ‘I won’t.’

  Norah turned to go.

  ‘Norah?’

  ‘What now?’

  ‘The other night in the Prater,’ Theresa said and then hesitated.

  Norah looked at her patiently.

  ‘If your friends hadn’t turned up,’ she said, ‘would you have…I mean, were you really going to…?’

  ‘Of course not,’ Norah replied.

  And the women looked at each other, the way two people do when they both know that one of them has just told a lie.

  ‘Didn’t think so,’ Theresa said.

  Back in her flat, Norah wandered through the rooms. The cardboard boxes had begun to gather dust and for the first time she realised why she hadn’t unpacked them: part of her had thought she wouldn’t stay in Vienna—that she’d end up going back to Alex. But that door was closed now. Alex had found a new girlfriend and although she hadn’t expected it, although the thought hurt like hell, a small part of her—a decent, grown-up part of her—was pleased for him.

  First thing tomorrow, she’d start to unpack. She’d manage somehow, though she knew it wouldn’t be easy. But first…

  Norah put her keys on the table, went over to the window and lit a cigarette. She looked down at her car. Tomorrow, when she’d finished unpacking, she’d drive somewhere nice. To Prague, maybe, to visit Kafka’s grave. Or to Hamburg, to surprise Werner. The possibilities were endless.

  Her eyes came to rest on the kitchen table. She sat down, opened her notebook and began to write.

  Dear Valerie,

  It’s strange. You’ve been dead for eighteen years, but if someone asks me who my best friend is, you’re always the first person to come to mind. Eighteen years. A child born
on the day of your death can drive a car now—tear around the place in a beat-up VW like the boys in the sixth form, or show off in Mum’s BMW like your cousin. Those kids are older than you ever were.

  Eighteen years. Although I know you’ve been dead for so long, I still think of us as being the same age as each other. Isn’t that funny? You’re sixteen and always will be. I’m in my mid-thirties and I’m writing to a teenager.

  I’m writing to say goodbye. I’ll keep it short, because it isn’t easy for me. Your mum’s well, so is your brother.

  I’m okay, though I’ve had a weird few weeks. I’ve been thinking of you a lot again lately. I suddenly got it into my head that you might not have killed yourself. But you did. You killed yourself. You really did. I must accept that.

  Maybe your mum’s right. Maybe nobody’s to blame, including me. Either way, I’m sorry.

  When you went…it was like a shadow falling over my life, like perpetual night.

  For eighteen years I was sure I was to blame for your death. But that has to stop now, Valerie; it’s time I returned to the light.

  I am going to try to think less of you in the coming months—try to let you rest. It won’t be easy, that’s for sure.

  And maybe what you wrote is true—maybe I am just a bad person. I’ve thought about it a lot lately. I have so many fucking flaws. And yes, the world is fucking unfair and it’s not often that I feel it in my power to change that. But I do try. And tomorrow I’ll try a little harder.

  That’s it, I think.

  Norah

  P.S. You were wrong about one thing. I do have friends. (You’d like them.)

  Norah read the letter through, then went into the bathroom and undressed. Her tattoo was healed; the new skin beneath the scab, fragile and translucent as parchment, no longer hurt when she touched it. Some primeval instinct drove her into the shower to wash; it was like an ancient ritual.

  When Norah was finished and had put on clean clothes, she returned to the kitchen and took out the heavy crystal ashtray that she had once bought at a flea market, but never used. She tore the letter out of her notebook, folded it up and put it in the ashtray. Then she took the envelope containing Valerie’s suicide note from her bag, put that in the ashtray too and set fire to the lot.

  To her surprise, she suddenly felt weightless. And perhaps, she thought, that was all right. Perhaps she was allowed to be happy. Even after all the mistakes she had made.