Dear Child

by Romy Hausmann

  My chest tightens and a ridiculous thought comes to mind: Hannah isn’t my granddaughter. It was all a big mistake. I realize I’m shaking my head. Don’t worry, it’s not possible. Hannah is your granddaughter. She looks just like your Lenchen.

  “The thing is, Matthias…”

  She looks just like your Lenchen.

  “We haven’t been able to establish any blood relationship between the body in the cabin and the children.”

  My heart sinks toward my stomach in relief. Of course Hannah is my granddaughter, it’s all good.

  “That means…”

  “That means the body in the cabin isn’t the biological father of the children. The DNA evidence means it’s not possible.”

  “Mark Sutthoff,” I pant down the telephone, without really understanding the significance of what I’m saying.

  “My colleague, Inspector Giesner, came up with the idea of testing Herr Sutthoff, because Lena had got back together with him shortly before she went missing. Although officially they were separated at the time of the abduction, if you remember, her text messages from the time revealed that the two were back in contact and were planning to make another go of things just as soon as Mark came back from his trip to France.”

  “Go on,” I say, grinding my teeth.

  “Well, we just did some calculations! We don’t have the exact birthdates of the two children, so we have to rely on their statements and the doctors’ educated guesses. If Hannah is indeed thirteen years old and Lena disappeared thirteen years and nine months ago, there are only two possibilities. Either Lena fell pregnant immediately after her abduction and Hannah was premature … or Lena was already pregnant at the time of her abduction.”

  “By Mark Sutthoff,” I say, putting a hand to my mouth.

  “Yes,” Gerd says, though he doesn’t sound particularly convinced. “It’s just that the corpse’s DNA doesn’t match Jonathan’s either, and he’s roughly two years younger than Hannah.”

  “Well, is there a match with Mark’s DNA?”

  “We don’t know yet. The laboratory won’t have the results until Monday at the earliest.”

  “For Christ’s sake, Gerd! If Mark is the father, then…” Words fail me as the significance of this sinks in, sinks deeper, burying me beneath its immense weight so I can hardly breathe.

  Good God, I had him. I actually had him.

  My hands on his collar. His back pressed up against the wall. His face as red as a lobster.

  Where is she, you bastard?

  I had him at a time when Lena must have still been alive.

  “Yes,” is all Gerd says.

  “But who’s the guy in the cabin, then?”

  “Hold on, Matthias. Until we have the lab results, everything’s just theoretical, do you understand? Until we have the results, Mark Sutthoff remains a witness who’s kindly helping us rule out one particular line of inquiry. And, to be honest, I don’t think we’re going to get a positive result from the lab. He loved Lena, and he’s actually a rather nice guy, don’t you think? He even asked me for Jasmin G’s address because he wanted to send her a get-well-soon card. I couldn’t give him the address, of course, but it just goes to show what sort of a person he is.”

  “But if—”

  “And it’s a very big if,” Gerd says. “Then the corpse in the cabin would be the wrong man. Or there was more than one man involved.”

  “One of whom was Mark Sutthoff.” The agonizing throbbing above my eyebrow that I’d felt when Mark visited us a couple of days ago begins again.

  “We’ll soon know. But…” Gerd hesitates.

  “But what?”

  “Listen, Matthias. I want you to get Karin on the phone for me now.”

  “I can’t. She’s out with a friend.”

  “Okay, call her then, would you? Tell her to come home. I don’t want you to be alone now and do something rash that would end up getting us all into trouble again. You swore on your granddaughter’s life…”

  Gerd keeps on talking: don’t do anything stupid, wait for Karin to get home. I stare into space; his words fly right past me. Even though I’m sitting with my back to the hallway, I can sense it. A shadow in the corner of my eye, at that moment scurrying toward the front door.

  JASMIN

  Part of me has shut itself off, huddled in a confined, black room with thick, impenetrable walls, while the rest of me is still sitting in my apartment with Giesner and Kirsten, who I’ve just lied to. Giesner’s sheet of paper doesn’t show my abductor but the driver of the car that hit me. And slowly, very slowly, drop by drop, the significance of this is trickling into my consciousness.

  “There’s something else I’d like to discuss with you, Frau Grass,” Cham says, clicking the nib of his biro back into the casing. He’s just noted, witnessed by the other policeman, that I’ve identified my abductor beyond doubt.

  My abductor who isn’t dead. I realize that what I’d thought when I was admitted to the hospital was what actually happened. I hit him only once, not several times, as the police believe, and so furiously that it shattered the snow globe. Just one futile time.

  “Just a moment,” Kirsten intervenes. “With all due respect for your work, Herr Giesner, I think Jassy has done her bit for today. She ought to get some rest now.”

  The snow globe only broke when I dropped it on the floor.

  Come on, children! Let’s go!

  “It’s fine, Kirsten.”

  “Are you sure, Jassy?”

  Now I am. I didn’t imagine the cracking in the undergrowth as I was running through the woods. He followed me, killed the driver of the car and then stuffed him in the cabin in his place. That’s exactly what must have happened. Then he cut up his face until it was unrecognizable, while Hannah went in the ambulance with me.

  “Yes, I’m sure.”

  Once again I’m seized by that strange feeling I had in the ambulance when I heard Hannah’s voice. Hannah, who didn’t belong there. And I ask myself why. Why did he let the ambulance take me away? Why didn’t he kill me along with the driver of the car? In his eyes surely that was the least I deserved after my attack on him and my escape.

  “Excellent, Frau Grass.”

  But no, he didn’t drag me back to the cabin or into the woods to let me die. He even sent Hannah with me.

  “Just let me know whenever you want a break.”

  I nod absentmindedly.

  Why? Why didn’t he just grab the kids and run? Surely he must have realized that the police would launch an investigation, whether I succumbed to my injuries or pulled through. He must have known that the police would find the cabin, of course he did, otherwise he wouldn’t have put the driver of the car there in his place. So why? Why?

  “Okay, let’s go on, Frau Grass. You’re almost there.” I think Cham is smiling, but I can’t smile back because my features are numb. “Does the name Sara mean anything to you?”

  So there had already been a Sara. The third child your husband had always wanted. You’d given birth to her. The assumption is that she’s dead. He wanted to replace his third, dead child, just like he wanted to replace you. Thoughts shimmer in the part of me that’s huddled in the confined, black room. The rest of me, sitting with Cham and Kirsten, is completely empty, just a shell, like a dummy standing in for me, giving monotone answers to questions, incapable of telling the truth. Of course I know why. I mean, it’s not that hard. Your husband is alive. Your husband let me live. Your husband has a plan. Cham begins talking about the latest DNA results, which effectively prove beyond any doubt that they’ve got the wrong man. Only they can’t work it out, of course they can’t, because I’m still keeping my mouth shut. Maybe Cham thinks it’s an accident, a contamination in the laboratory that’s led to an inaccurate result. His words swirl, surrounding me, becoming more oppressive by the minute. My breathing gets shallower, ever shallower. As if simply by panting I could dismiss the realization that is so horrific. For a moment it works. But then the heat s
urges in me again, a merciless, scorching heat. I’m suffocating.

  You have to tell them. Open your mouth. The police can help you.

  Nobody’s going to come and help you. You’ve just got us now.

  Forever and ever and ever.

  Your husband’s alive. Your husband let me live. Your husband has a plan. And he’s coming to get me. At that moment the dummy in my reading chair slumps.

  Papa! Mama’s had another fit!

  MATTHIAS

  A shadow flitting across our hallway.

  As if in slow motion I turn my head, but I can already hear the door click shut. My mobile slips from my hand and lands with a thud on the living room carpet. I leap up from the sofa. My footsteps, which ought to be rapid, are heavy. What this means. My heart. My hand reaches for the handle. I wrench open the door. It’s already dark outside, only the streetlamps providing yellow islands of light on the black tarmac. My eyes scope the scene. I glimpse her. Hannah, getting into a car about three hundred yards away. And the large, black figure slamming the passenger door behind her. As if paralyzed, I watch the man hurry around the car to the driver’s door.

  “Hannah,” I croak.

  The engine starts. The car gets moving. Drives off. It’s only now that my paralysis from the shock abates. I rush down the steps, through the open garden gate and into the street and bellow, “Mark! No!”

  But all I can see of Mark and Hannah are two little red taillights in the darkness.

  JASMIN

  It’s too dark. Ever since I was discharged from the hospital I’ve had to have a light on somewhere. Kirsten knows that. Darkness is the storeroom in the cabin, it’s the feeling of my arms being painfully stretched, wrists shackled to a waste pipe; it’s the terrifying black sphere where my thoughts cannot anchor, it’s the fear and the waiting for him to come back and kill me. I blink, but it’s still dark. I try to quickly recap what’s happened. Cham was here. He showed me the facial reconstruction. I lied, I identified the wrong man. Cham said the children’s DNA didn’t match that of the body they’d found inside the cabin. He asked me if I could explain that. I could explain it to myself, of course. But not to him. I was too worried he might think I was mad. Too worried that I might actually be mad after everything that’s happened. And how would Kirsten react if I came up with the next melodramatic story? How much longer could I punish her? I must have passed out, something inside me must have shut down and sought the easiest route to a short-term blackout. Like back in the cabin. How often did the ceiling tilt, the floor ripple and the room spin as soon as I felt unable to cope? And how grateful I was each time to slide into the redemptive blackness, surrendering to what Hannah called a “fit.”

  I can feel the pillow beside me. Kirsten must have taken me to bed after I collapsed in front of her and Cham. So that’s where we’re at, and it speaks volumes. Nobody considered calling a doctor or even an ambulance. Because nobody takes me seriously anymore. Because I’m not ill, but at most hysterical. I picture Kirsten sweating from the exertion of heaving me up from the sitting-room floor, having assured Cham that there’s no cause for concern. It’s just nerves, after all, I’d spent two days fretting about the moment when I’d come face to face with the picture of my abductor. Besides, I’m short on sleep, and need peace and quiet. She’s not well. In fact, she’s been wetting the bed recently. And I imagine Cham’s reaction. The obligatory comment about the importance of regular visits to the psychotherapist, the universal remedy for someone in my situation.

  And am I doing it again or not? If right now what I’m most worried about is what other people might think about me, then that’s ludicrous, a shabby attempt to escape inside my head. I am doing it again, trying to suppress what’s going on here, trying to ignore the panic drumming inside my chest, the fear of the blackness all around me.

  I blink again. Black is still black, shapeless, pitch-black. I reach for the bedside light switch. I find it, press it. It clicks, but the room remains black. An unfamiliar sound rises from my throat, not powerful, not loud, but strained; a short, forgotten breath, desperate to catch up. I sit up and look where residual light from the streetlamp should leak into the room through the gaps in the roller blind. No light, just blackness and my heart pounding.

  “Kirsten?” I call out and wait for an answer. It doesn’t come. I listen out for any sound. But there’s nothing. Silence, blackness and my pounding heart. I think I’m dreaming—I know I’m dreaming. And yet I find it hard to calm myself. To resign myself to this oppressive blackness, this sheer disorientation which reminds me of the storeroom, on the day I was abducted. I sink back, close my eyes, breathe in the familiar smell of home, a trace of Kirsten’s perfume, the hint of freesias still on the pillow. I can cope with this dream.

  But I can’t. I open my eyes, again in hope, again in vain. Everything is black. I sit up once more. Feel my way to the edge of the mattress, crawl across the floor to the bedroom door, one arm outstretched. I carefully get up, now feeling for the door handle. I press it down. It squeaks as it always does. Once, again, and many more times in quick succession until I realize that the door won’t open. I’m locked in. I feel beside the door frame for the overhead light switch. A click, but it’s still black. Click again, still black. I hammer my fist against the door. “Kirsten!” I shout. “What’s going on? Let me out!” I hammer, I shout, unable to believe this. It’s a dream, a bad dream. My breathing is fitful, I’m panting. Then I hear a gentle laugh from the other side of the room. His laugh.

  And the question.

  “How are you, Lena?”

  MATTHIAS

  Drive faster. Drivedrivedrivedrive.

  The speedometer is quivering at 110. The old banger can’t go any faster.

  Where’s he taken her?

  Gerd! flashes in my mind. Gerd’s words on the telephone earlier.

  He even asked me for Jasmin G’s address because he wanted to send her a get-well-soon card. I couldn’t give him the address, of course, but it just goes to show what sort of a person he is.

  A person who was definitely in a position to get hold of Jasmin G’s address, even without Gerd’s help. Anyone can do it; it just takes a few clicks on the internet. I narrow my eyes to help me see better in the distance. But the motorway is empty and black. No taillights, not anywhere.

  What if he’s taking her somewhere else?

  I lost valuable time running back into the house to fetch the car keys. I lost years while waiting for the garage door to open, and even more years as I was reversing the car from the garage into the street. More than thirteen years.

  I won’t be able to catch Mark up.

  I didn’t lose any time grabbing a coat or putting on shoes. I’m operating the pedals in my slippers.

  I ought to have lost time getting my mobile phone, which is now lying uselessly on our living room carpet.

  No mobile. No possibility of calling for help. No support.

  I’m alone.

  I had him.

  My hands on his collar. His back pressed up against the wall. His face lobster-red.

  Where is she, you bastard?

  I let him go.

  In my mind I hear him talking about the Marne Valley, a beautiful area, incredible countryside—liar. He was making fun of us. He even admitted to having a daughter. Hannah. How come I didn’t see through him?

  “Papi,” comes the squeaky voice from the back seat. All I can see in the rear-view mirror is her forehead and her shining eyes standing out against the darkness behind me. “You’ve got to help me, Papi.”

  “I know, my darling,” I answer, my voice choking.

  “This time you’ve really got to help me.”

  “Yes, Lenchen, I know.” I wipe my eyes with the back of my hand when the road ahead starts to blur. “I’m on my way to help you. This time I won’t let you down, I promise.”

  “But you’ve got to hurry, Papi.”

  The speedometer is trembling at 125; the old banger is careening.<
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  JASMIN

  “Where’s Kirsten?” I croak.

  “She’s not coming,” his voice says. “No one’s coming.”

  I slap the door and scream, “Kirsten!” and “Help!”

  “Shut up!” the voice hisses. “You wouldn’t want to worry the neighbors, would you?”

  I keep hammering against the door, banging it, shouting louder, pulling and shaking the handle, which squeaks and squeaks and squeaks. A moment later his hand is there. It takes him a few attempts—in the pitch-black of the room he must be just as disoriented as I am—but then the hand finds what it’s looking for, now over my nose and mouth, tight, too tight, I can’t breathe. His body pushing firmly against my back, his hand on my face. I start thrashing my legs, I kick the door, am wrenched back, I fall, a hard landing, he’s flung me to the floor. I scream in terror and pain and disbelief.

  “Please unlock the door.”

  Silence.

  “Please turn the light on.”

  Somewhere in the darkness the voice says, “I’m afraid it’s not so simple, Lena. You see, I flipped the fuse switches.”

  I scrabble backward until I feel the wall at my back. I carefully pull myself up, groping for the wall with my hand. There’s a rustling, paper: one of the articles I stuck up. I stick out my other hand into the void. Where is he?

  “How did you do this? Who helped you fix it all?”

  “Helped? Me?” He laughs; it’s coming from my right. “Nobody, Lena. I’m God, I don’t need anybody’s help.” Footsteps slowly getting closer, a whisper: “I can even rise from the dead.”