***
Aldi overflowed with Christmas display bins: Stollen in one, spiced biscuits in another, others with singing Santas and flashing Rudolfs. When the display had gone up in November, she’d told Gary about the range of German delicacies that would make wonderful Christmas presents for his parents. When she thought of Christmas now, it was enough to fracture her heart.
She’d stupidly arrived during the lunch hour and the shop was busy with teachers from Niers International. Despite the English-speaking media’s heavy coverage of the outrage, there were still some staff who didn’t know her. They pushed their trolleys past without a flicker of recognition. But out of the corner of her eye she could see others making U-turns when they stepped into her aisle. She didn’t blame them – what the hell do you say to a woman who’d found three dead bodies? Four, if they counted the dog.
It was like being at a slow-moving barn dance where some potential partners would glide by, while others claimed her for several rounds of the chorus. A woman from Gary’s department halted her trolley to offer condolences. Later an admin assistant did the same.
Yes, thanks, she was bearing up. No, no date for the funeral yet. Yes, it’s a relief the killer has been caught. No, she didn’t know him, not really. Yes, the German police did a good job. No, you don’t expect it will happen to you, yes, no, yes, no. “Frosty the Snowman” blared out of the speakers. She grabbed what she needed and left.
***
She pulled her hood up to block out the cold and hide herself from prying eyes. Cars were crawling past. Were they taking it steady on the untreated roads? Or gawping at her through their windows?
A woman called her name. Another tongue-tied well-wisher she would pretend not to hear. But she recognized the accented voice and turned to wait for Maria, her Greek neighbour, to catch her up.
“How are you? No, foolish question. Foolish – it is the word – yes?” Maria asked as they walked home.
Helen pushed back her hood. “I am sorry I cancelled your English lessons.”
Maria waved her hands. “Don’t say it. I understand, of course. No more lessons; we leave to Athens … er … January. Last week, Dimitris, my husband, ask. Yesterday the school say yes.”
Helen knew full well what event had prompted her husband’s sudden request to cut short his exchange posting, when a few weeks earlier he had declared how grateful he was for the English lessons that were helping his wife to integrate into the school community. Nothing like a massacre next door but one to bring on a desperate yearning for the homeland.
“There are going to be lots of changes in the street,” she said with false brightness. “Mel and I will leave soon. And I think Damian will move house.” Her voice trailed off.
“I am sorry for you,” Maria said.
Helen swallowed hard. The Greek woman’s simple phrase was more eloquent and better meant than so much of the articulate sympathy she’d received.
They walked on, comfortable with each other. They stayed on the scrubby grass verge that was less slippery than the snow-compacted pavement.
“Four friends leave Dickensweg unhappy or dead: Steve, Chris, Gary and Damian,” Maria said.
“Who’s Steve?”
“He live in 8, by my house. Now Polly and Jerome live there.”
“And he died too?”
She shook her head. “He in Cyprus but he sad because his wife don’t go. Dimitris give him Greek lessons.”
“A teacher? Was he a friend of Gary’s?”
Maria shrugged her shoulders. They’d stopped at the kerb but stepped back when a car sprayed up slush. The task of crossing the slippery road made them silent. Helen didn’t resume the conversation on the opposite verge. What Maria said was sticking on her like a scab she wanted to pick even though she sensed it might open up and bleed. Steve? It was an ordinary enough name, but at the back of her mind she knew she’d heard it in connection with something else. They said goodbye when they reached Dickensweg, and Maria went into number 6.
***
There was a visitor on Helen’s doorstep.
Damian was swaying. “Can I come in?” His speech was slurred.
“I want to make a start on clearing Gary’s things. I might not be able to face it later,” she said.
“I was hoping you’d give me a drink. The hotel refused to serve me.”
He stank of beer and body odour, and there was rusty, unshaven scrub on his jaw. She would have to edge past him without him getting a foot in the door. “The café next to Aldi does coffee and fresh rolls, why don’t you try there?” He looked as if he hadn’t had a square meal since their restaurant outing.
“That’s not the kind of drink I had in mind. Don’t come over all disapproving. Why shouldn’t I drink? What else is there for me?”
“Your children. Your job.” She had trouble sounding civil; children and job were two comforts she didn’t have.
He leant against her front door and folded his arms. “I went into school today. I’m fed up of compassionate leave. The way they looked at me – their head teacher – it was nothing short of contempt.”
“I’m not surprised if you went to school in this state.” She stamped from foot to foot, her toes numb with cold. She hoped she could last the stand-off; no way did she want him in her house.
“Damn it, Helen, don’t be obtuse. Booze had nothing to do with it. When your home has been used for wholesale slaughter, you become part of it. It’s all right for you; after a decent interval you can pick up your old life in England.”
She didn’t want England, she wanted Gary. And she wanted Damian to shut up. Would he always be like this now that Louisa wasn’t there to keep him in check? She almost missed Louisa.
He was still speaking, his tin-breath misting the air. “I’m unemployable; no one wants a mass murderer in their school.” He looked into her face. “It’s what they all think. Even my … friend won’t answer my calls. She thinks I killed Louisa, did it for her. As if. In her dreams, maybe.” He let out a chuckle.
Helen hunched her shoulders and turned away, trying not to listen.
He lolled towards her. “You don’t like my jokes, do you? Humour could help us through this.”
The word “us” sent a flurry of panic through her. She wanted to flee, put space between herself and any attempt at an “us”. But it was her house and it was warm inside. She’d had enough.
“As you said, I’ll be moving soon. I have a lot to sort out.” She remembered the scab and it itched. “The Greek family at number 6 is leaving. Maria mentioned Steve who lived here. Did you know him?”
Damian’s face froze. “I don’t think so,” he said. “There was a Steve at number 8 for a while. He kept himself to himself. I expect Louisa knew his wife, but I don’t recall him well.”
He stepped away from the door and didn’t try to follow her into the house. Helen closed the door, wondering what Damian was hiding. He had been Steve’s head teacher; he’d remember one of his own staff, wouldn’t he?
42
Gisela took the bus to the prison. She’d never been to that part of the city before and couldn’t trust herself to drive and navigate after the vodka she’d drunk to quell her nerves. She dreaded seeing Sascha. God knew what that place would have done to him. She knew about young men on remand committing suicide. Nicht nochmal (Not again). She felt hollow in her chest. She first had it when Mareike died.
The woman beside her got out in Mönchengladbach. When no one took the empty seat, she slipped a hip flask out of her pocket. Slumping low, she brought the anaesthetic to her lips. She tried to bat away an unwelcome thought but it persisted. If I hadn’t been drunk that night, the taxi driver wouldn’t have reported me and I could have stuck by Sascha’s alibi. She took another drink. I sent my son to jail.
Out of the window a herd of deer posed, russet-red against snow-laden firs. They took the children skiing once in Mayrhofen. Sascha, the natural athlete, joined his father on the steep ridges. She and Mareike
sipped hot chocolate from the café terraces and admired the views.
Was Gott tut, das ist wohl getan? What had they done since then to deserve God’s wrath?
The prison entrance hall was like Düsseldorf airport. Years ago they flew to Lanzarote for Christmas. Baby Mareike, just able to sit up, spent glorious mornings in the shade of the hired parasol, unpacking and repacking the beach bag: baby wipes, sun cream, formula milk, camera. Her face – hamster cheeks red with teething – a picture of concentration – while, at the shoreline, Sascha and his father built castles and bridges.
The prison foyer, like the airport, was crammed with all kinds of humanity: young mothers with restless children; older, world-weary women; bored-looking teenagers; and men, most of whom seemed intimidating enough for Gisela to think they should be on the inside of the prison rather than queuing to visit.
But at least there had been proper toilets at the airport.
“It’s a shack in the car park, dodgy flush. You’re best holding on if you can,” the woman next to her in the queue said when Gisela asked where the loo was. They stood while prison officers checked ID cards and carried out body searches.
When it was her turn, the prison officer pointed at the notice by his desk that warned that persons under the influence of drugs or alcohol would not be admitted to the visiting room.
“MS. It’s worse when I have to stand up for so long,” she lied. Thank God that vodka carried no smell.
***
In the visiting room, the other people took their places at tables like chess masters awaiting their opponents. Most of the children made for the play area in the corner. Two siblings squabbled about whose turn it was to drive the toy fire engine.
She went to a table when she was directed. A warden appeared, leading Sascha towards her. He was wearing his own clothes but, when she saw his prison-issue felt pumps, she wanted to weep. My Sascha never wears slippers.
“Am I allowed to give him a kiss?” she asked the officer.
“No need,” Sascha said.
The officer shrugged his shoulders and walked away.
“It’s good to see you,” she said quietly.
“You don’t have to whisper. No one is interested in what we’ve got to say.”
Noise levels were high as prisoners and visitors exchanged news. She shuddered; she’d been charged with providing a false alibi. A malevolent judge might send her to prison too.
“Has Manfred Scholz been in touch?” he asked.
She trawled her memory for two ends of wool to join. The name meant nothing to her.
“Doesn’t matter,” he said, studying her face. “How much have you had?”
“I’m not drunk. This whole thing is painful enough for me without you insulting me.”
“For you,” he snapped. “I’m charged with three counts of murder and the destruction of a dog, but this is painful for you. They can’t decide whether I committed a random act and might strike again, or if I targeted the Howards and I’ll go back for the father and his children. Either way I’m locked up until the trial.”
The police were fools if they reckoned her son committed random murders. But specific murders?
“I’m sure the time will pass,” she said.
“The next six months until the trial or the thirty years after they convict me?”
“The lawyer can cast doubt on the evidence. It’s his job to defend you, whatever the circumstances.”
“Listen to you, you’ve condemned me already. Look me in the eye and tell me I didn’t do it.”
“Of course you didn’t,” she said, her gaze slipping from his. The tabletop was a greasy black, years of anxious hands across it. She hated how her gut had churned in the first moment of hearing the gossip in Aldi and how her heart had shattered when he begged her for an alibi.
He interrupted her thoughts. “Mama, bitte?” His eyes filled with the same despair as when she had told him Mareike was dead. He had reached out for her then but she’d plunged into her own hell. Mareike was the good child, the hardworking Abitur student. The girl was set for university. Unlike Sascha, the naughty one. Two abandoned apprenticeships behind him, blamed at the time on the exploitative bakery owners, but what if his temper had something to do with it?
But she mustn’t fail him now. If someone that she had a grudge against was murdered, wouldn’t she have constructed an alibi? Sascha couldn’t prove he was at a closed-down swimming pool, but it didn’t mean it wasn’t true.
He was still looking at her pleadingly, a little boy who needed his mama. How much of the plummeting spiral of the last two years was her fault? He had been getting over it, moving on, but in her haze of misery, she’d shown him Mareike’s note and his quiet grieving became a clamouring, furious obsession.
“I’ll always love you,” she said but didn’t look him in the eyes.
43
Saturday, 18 December
What would Louisa say? Helen surveyed the lounge of Damian’s soulless new rented house three streets away from Dickensweg. How long would it have taken Louisa to obliterate the magnolia walls with savannah yellow or to tear down the floral curtains in favour of Roman blinds?
“I can’t face bringing over the furniture from Number Ten. It would be like importing a virus. We won’t have Louisa’s aromatherapy stuff either. This place will always smell rented,” Damian said.
He pointed at the sofa upholstered in a migrainous mix of orange and brown swirls. “Have a seat. It’s more comfortable than it looks.”
She perched on the edge. “I’ll stay for a minute. I only popped round with quiz books for the boys. I didn’t realize they hadn’t moved in yet.” She wished she’d handed the presents over on the doorstep. She wondered if he was drunk again.
“I’ll make you a coffee and then you can have the full tour.”
She declined both, pointing out that the house was the same layout as her own, but she felt less anxious now he’d offered a hot drink instead of wine.
“Louisa would have had a seizure if she knew her children were going to slum it in a semi,” he said.
She ignored the insult to her own house and asked when the boys were moving in. He hadn’t shaved but he was showered and dressed. Surely he’d pulled himself together enough to resume his full-time duties as a father.
“Sabine’s pressing for me to take them this weekend but they might as well stay where they are and get some semblance of a family Christmas.”
“Won’t you be lonely?”
“We could have Christmas lunch together. There’s no need for either of us to be alone.”
“Polly and Jerome have invited me,” she said quickly.
“They told me they were going to Center Parcs.”
“You could ask Mel. I don’t think she has any plans.” She drew her arms around herself, feeling a chill, ashamed for offering up her neighbour to cover her lie.
“You must see the bedrooms before you go,” he said.
Chill became squirming heat. She moved nearer to the sofa’s edge.
“The beds must have been built in a communist factory,” he said. “The springs have as much give as a block of concrete.”
“Couldn’t you get someone to take the beds out of Number Ten for you? I don’t think he went upstairs.” She swallowed hard, and Damian looked away. They both knew who “he” was.
“I’d best be going,” she said.
“No, stay. I want you to know I’ve stopped drinking.” He gave her a pleased expression like a child who’d tied his shoelaces for the first time. “I don’t need booze as a crutch. I’m through that now. It’s time to move on, don’t you think?”
Helen picked her words carefully. “I’m glad you’re not drinking, but I think we’re all going to take time to put this behind us.”
“But we don’t have much time. With Gary gone, your days here are numbered.”
She stared at him, not sure what he was driving at.
He tilted his head and lifted his e
yes towards her. “If you had a sponsor, your status would be guaranteed.”
Her mouth gaped. Sponsor?
“Obviously it means moving things on more quickly than either of us would have preferred, but these aren’t normal times.”
He couldn’t be saying that; she must have got it wrong.
“Don’t play dumb, Helen. You can’t stay in Dickensweg. There’ll be a new head of German soon enough and he’ll need the house.”
Her belly churned with anger and hurt. He was already consigning Gary to the past. He’d replace him like he replaced any teacher when a vacancy arose. Maybe he’d already posted the ads: Exciting opportunities for Head of German and Head of Art. Due to unexpected circumstances. And his offer to sponsor her? Did he think Helen would fill the vacancy in his bed?
“I’ve got to go.”
She dashed for the front door. As she reached up for the latch, he grabbed her arm. His grip wasn’t tight, but fear froze her to the spot. He stepped closer. The veins in his nose were broken.
“Please hear me out. I’m useless on my own, can’t function with Louisa gone. I need someone who understands what I’m going through. And you need a home and a job. I could get you a teaching post at my school.”
She found her voice. “You think I’d insult Gary’s memory to get a job?”
“Gary’s memory?” He let out a hard laugh. “You really didn’t know him, did you?” He put his hand on her shoulder.
She jerked her knee into his groin and wrenched the door open as he doubled over in pain.
***
There was a note on her doormat when she got back. Her whole body was trembling so much that she couldn’t focus. She sat on the bottom of her stairs in the hall and rocked. The police must have made a mistake with Sascha. He’d warned her Damian was dangerous. In all his stalking, was he trying to protect the neighbours, not hound them? Was Damian the killer? She rocked. No. Yes. No. Did he brood, plot, and covet his neighbour’s wife until he could bear it no more? Oh God, did that make it her fault? Was everything her fault?
The Perfect Neighbours Page 19