DON'T LOOK DOWN

by Barbara Scott Emmett

  ‘And say what? “Hello. Is that Zamir?”’

  ‘Well, can you think of anything better?’

  ‘Look in the drawers first,’ Wolf said. ‘No wait. I’ll do that. You look in her bedroom.’

  ~

  Lauren sat on the edge of Katti’s bed and contemplated the room. Where to begin? It wasn’t very well lit. The scarves draped around the overhead shade tinted the place a dim pink, and the reading lamp by the bed gave only a localised pool of light.

  She sipped her wine and started on the bedside cabinet. A rickety wooden structure, it needed some persuasion to give up its grip on the top drawer. Lauren scrabbled through the contents. Lillets, condoms, matches, Rizla+ papers, a small quantity of dope wrapped in clingfilm. Hmmm.

  Hairbands, two passport-sized photos of Katti taken in a photo booth – alone, a collection of safety pins, ballpoint pens and hairgrips. A scarlet lipstick – Lauren twisted it open, smiling when she discovered it was a small vibrator in disguise, a couple of buttons and few small coins – but no address book. She jerked the drawer closed making the lamp on top totter. The bottom drawer was so stiff it would only open half way and was empty.

  Remembering the suitcases and shoeboxes she’d seen under the bed the night she’d slept here, Lauren knelt on the rug. Damn Wolf, he knew what he was doing giving her the bedroom to search.

  She hauled out an old leather suitcase, blew the fluff off it, and opened it. Inside there was another smaller leather case, and inside that – nothing. Great.

  Another suitcase produced the same result.

  Lauren started on the shoeboxes. As she’d guessed, Katti kept anything but shoes in them. One was full of chalks, crayons, charcoal, Caran d’Ache pastels, and left her fingers coated with multi-coloured dust. She rubbed her hands on her jeans. About time they went in the wash anyway.

  Another box contained pencils, sketching pens, rubbers, fixing spray and Blu-tack – except it was white. The last box – once the home of a pair of fringed cowboy boots from the look of the label, was full of rolled up A4 drawings. Lauren was about to push it back under the bed with the rest but curiosity got the better of her.

  Taking a sip of wine, she sat on the floor and unrolled the sketches. Katti was good, if a little slapdash. Her portraits were rapid squiggles, dashed off as if she couldn’t be bothered to spend too much time on any one person, but they managed to be identifiable and hinted at something other than simply what they represented.

  There were several of Wolf in various moods – one where he was even smiling. A couple of Lauren herself done several years ago, numerous friends – Hilde with cat, Roland by the Silbersee, Anna and Tomas, Sammy at the Meisengeige – Lauren held this one under the bedside light for a better look. Sammy. Dark, handsome, with a young man’s unsure yet cocky smile. Sammy. Zamir.

  ‘Wolf.’ Lauren leapt up. ‘Come and look at this.’

  Fifty-seven

  Alina sobbed on her bed. She had wanted to warn Katti. He is a liar, she wanted to say. He will trick you like he tricked me. When she saw her with him that night, walking hand in hand, laughing, she wanted to call out. Don’t believe him, Katti. He is a liar, a trickster.

  Zamir had reached down and scooped up some snow; laughing, always laughing, his dark eyes flashing, he pushed it down Katti’s neck. Alina could still hear Katti’s squeal, her shrill laughter as she fought him off. So playful, they were. Lovers in the snow. How could she tell her? Warn her? How could she, without also telling what had happened to her? The shame was too much.

  So she turned her eyes away and pretended she never saw them, that it had never happened, the way she pretended so many other things had never happened. The way she would go on pretending until it was over. Until it was no longer true.

  Fifty-eight

  ‘It’s him, isn’t it?’ Lauren put the photograph of Zamir on the table next to the flattened sketch of Sammy. ‘And look, there’s another one here.’

  Wolf unfurled the second sketch. The same young man smiled directly out of the drawing as if he was weighing up the artist, planning some sexual encounter with her as soon as she put the charcoal down.

  ‘Sammy in my bedroom,’ he read, scowling. ‘How could she fall for it? How could she be so stupid?’ He crumpled the drawing in his clenched fist.

  ‘Careful, Wolf. Don’t ruin it.’

  ‘You think she will want it after this?’ He hurled the ball of paper across the room.

  ‘No. But it’s evidence.’ Lauren retrieved the sketch and smoothed it out.

  ‘What use is that? We cannot go to the police.’ Wolf sat down heavily on the chaise, dropping his head into his hands. ‘I’m sorry Lauren. I don’t mean to be so dismissive. But I am going crazy. If anything has happened to her...’

  ‘If he loves her, he won’t hurt her. It’s threats, that’s all.’

  ‘We only have that girl’s word for it. That he loves her. How can he hope to make her love him when he has done this?’

  Lauren sat next to him and put her hand on his knee. ‘Maybe she already does,’ she said. ‘Love is a weird thing, you know. It can conquer all sorts of adversity. Maybe he’s somehow got her involved. Got her thinking it’s a good idea. A bit of fun. “Hey,” he says one day, “let’s get some readies from your father. Start a new life together – ”’

  She stopped when she realised how this sounded. Start a new life together. Exactly what Zamir told Alina. Could Katti have been so foolish? Lauren was torn between wanting it to be so, in the hope it meant Katti was safe, and not believing it, knowing that could mean she was in danger.

  She got up and went to look at the sketch again. Sammy at the Meisengeige. ‘The Meisengeige. That’s that cinema-bar place, isn’t it? I used to go there with Katti years ago.’ She picked up the matchbook she’d found in the bureau earlier and read the address. ‘Innere Laufer Gasse. Someone there might know him.’

  Wolf looked up. ‘What are we waiting for, then? I could do with a brandy.’

  Fifty-nine

  ‘Time to go, Pussycat.’ Sammy hauls her into a sitting position and she leans against him, limp and moaning. He slips the dress over her head, struggling to get her arms through the sleeves, tugging the neckline into place, fastening the tiny pearl buttons. Her nipples are erect; he can see them through the loose silk.

  Picking up her boots he pushes her bare feet into them and zips them up. He pulls her upright and drapes her black woollen cape around her shoulders.

  ‘Don’t worry, Pussycat. Soon get you warm.’ He walks her to the door, her feet dragging along the boards, and gives a last glance around the room. Her shoulder-bag is already in the boot of the Lada with her underwear stuffed into it. The thought of her without her bra, without tights, excites him. But there is no time now. Later, when they are safe. When they have the money.

  Easing the front door closed, he listens for sounds on the stairs. When he is sure there is no one around, he half drags, half carries her to the car.

  Sixty

  The Meisengeige was crowded and noisy. The smoky interior and wooden chairs reminded Lauren of a painting by Toulouse Lautrec. She swept her eyes over the room. The clientele fitted the bill too. Artists. Musicians. Old Hippies. The place was jumping. All the tables in the front section were taken.

  Wolf edged through a group of people standing near the bar and beckoned to her. Pointing out a small table near the door to the Kino, he leaned across the polished bartop to shout his order in the barman’s ear.

  Lauren took off the turquoise leather jacket of Katti’s she’d borrowed and settled into her seat. She glanced at the cinema posters decorating the walls. Didn’t look like much had changed since she was last here. She liked the place. It oozed creativity and sub-culture. Wolf set two brandies on the table. ‘Prosit,’ he said, clinking her glass with his.

  Lauren looked around. The cafe was divided by the centrally placed bar into a front room and a back room. A narrower drinking area running alongside the bar sepa
rated them. ‘Where do we start?’ she said.

  Wolf fished the photo of Zamir out of his pocket. ‘I’ll ask the barman if he knows him when I go up for another drink.’ He tossed his brandy back. ‘If we get no luck there, we work the room.’

  ~

  The barman knew Katti by name and thought he had seen Zamir but didn’t know what he was called or where he lived. He shouted across to the girl working the espresso machine. ‘Rita. Seen this guy around lately?’

  The girl peered at the photo through a cloud of steam and shook her head. ‘See Axel over by the window,’ she said. ‘Guy in the orange boiler suit. He knows everybody.’

  ‘You go,’ Wolf told Lauren. ‘I have seen that Axel guy around. He’s weird. Very suspicious. But he will talk to you.’

  ‘Why would be talk to me?’

  ‘Because you are an attractive woman.’ Wolf hung his head and averted his eyes like an embarrassed schoolboy and Lauren rewarded him with a wry smile.

  ‘Well, as long as we’re not being sexist or anything.’

  Axel’s long black hair hung flat from a centre parting and flowed down over his shoulders. His cruel, handsome face showed a hint of violence, an air of command.

  Sort of guy you want to keep on the right side of, thought Lauren. She felt his eyes on her as she squeezed through the tables towards him, and sensed the power of his sexual attraction. He was surrounded by females. Nubile, pretty, younger than he was. Acolytes? Or employees?

  Lauren faced him across the table. ‘Hi there. Sorry to bother you. But do you know Katti Hartmann by any chance?’ Play it dumb, she told herself. Act the little innocent.

  Axel’s dark eyes locked on hers and she felt like a rabbit hypnotised by a snake. A strangely willing rabbit.

  ‘I know everyone,’ Axel said. ‘This is my town.’ Finally, he smiled. ‘Yes, I know Katti Hartmann.’ He glanced around the room then latched onto Lauren’s eyes again. ‘Why do you want to know?’

  ‘I was supposed to meet her here but I’m a bit late.’ Lauren dragged her eyes away from his to cover her lies. ‘I wondered if you’d seen her.’

  ‘She hasn’t been in tonight.’ Axel raised a dark querying eyebrow and waited for Lauren to continue.

  She felt herself reddening under Axel’s gaze. He was surrounded by women. He was probably in the same line of business as Zamir. God, I hope he’s not one of them. Could be walking right into a trap here. ‘Do you know where her boyfriend... Zam... Sammy lives?’

  ‘And why should I tell you this?’

  ‘Erm, well, I’m only here for a few days. I don’t want to waste any time. I don’t see Katti very often. And if she’s not here, she’s probably with Sammy.’ Lying is starting to come naturally to me, thought Lauren.

  ‘And your name is?’

  ‘Er, Lauren. I’ve known Katz for years.’

  Axel steepled his hands, never taking his eyes from hers. His fingernails were long and dirty, his fingers thin with prominent joints. She thought of Rasputin, only clean shaven. He nodded.

  ‘Lauren Keane,’ he said.

  Lauren almost leapt back with shock. ‘How... how did you...?

  ‘I told you. This is my town. It’s my business to know everyone who comes to it.’

  ‘So, you know Sammy then?’

  ‘Sammy? Oh yes. Tch tch tch.’ He shook his head, searching out her eyes again. ‘Thinks he’s something of a tough guy, does our Sammy.’

  Lauren shrugged. ‘He’s very young.’

  Axel leaned across the table. ‘And he will not get much older if he carries on the way he is at the moment.’

  Lauren stiffened. ‘Wh-what do you mean?’

  ‘He has an eye for the ladies.’ He took his gaze from her briefly to wink at one of his companions, who blushed and looked away. ‘An eye he will lose if it strays again where it should not stray.’

  Lauren shivered despite the sweaty atmosphere. ‘Any…any idea where he lives? Katti did tell me, but I’m a bit hazy with German street names.’

  ‘I told you, I know everything.’ He smiled and his dark brown eyes went liquid. Lauren saw how easy it would be to fall into them. To drown.

  ‘I should have written the address down when Katz gave it to me. But I thought she’d be here and...’

  ‘Katti told me about you,’ Axel went on. ‘She is my friend, Katti Hartmann. She is foolish, but she is my friend. If you are her friend, Lauren Keane, you are mine also. Are you not?’

  ‘Of-of course I am.’ Jesus, Keane, Lauren thought. The guy’s obviously a psychopath. You’re like a hostage siding with your captor.

  Axel bowed his head. ‘Here.’ He scribbled something on the back of a coaster advertising wheat beer. ‘Give this to Katti’s brother over there, who is looking so very very anxious.’

  ~

  ‘What’s with the Guantanamo Bay outfit?’ Lauren said when they got outside.

  Wolf stared at the address on the coaster. ‘The orange boiler suit? So he’ll be visible if he ever gets lost in the forest.’ He glanced up. ‘That’s what he tells people anyway.’

  ‘Is he... er... at all representative of Katti’s acquaintances?’

  Wolf smiled. ‘I told you she had strange friends. You needn’t have worried when I said you were the most normal one.’ He tapped the coaster against his palm. ‘Let’s go.’

  Sixty-one

  Lauren sat behind Wolf on the BMW as he eased the bike through the cobbled streets. The Christmas market was in full swing in the Hauptmarkt; shoppers and tourists spilled onto the surrounding streets. Bright lights painted the wet pavements red, green and silver.

  Lauren wished she was free to wander through the holly-decked stalls, to listen to carol singers, to buy gingerbread and drink Gluhwein. Once this was all over maybe she would get the chance.

  There was a procession winding through the old town; a band was playing, the noise of drums and tubas coming nearer. Wolf turned away from the centre to avoid getting caught up in it. The address Axel had given them was on the other side of the town, half a mile or so outside the old walls.

  ~

  They managed to gain access to the building – a walk-up apartment block built in the early 1900s – by strolling in behind a visitor who had been buzzed in to another flat. Wolf fumbled for his keys, pretending he was a resident himself to allay any suspicion the man might have of strangers. They climbed the three sets of stone stairs to flat 15 and stood outside a blue door.

  Lauren was intensely aware of her heart. It seemed to have a life of its own and had decided to take up hopscotch. She shot a glance at Wolf and guessed his was getting the same exercise. He glared at the door as though it was an adversary he was attempting to browbeat.

  ‘Do we knock?’ whispered Lauren. There was no chance they’d get away with breaking in here. Any noise, and the other residents would be poking their noses out of their doors in no time. ‘We could get ready to charge at the door as soon as he answers,’ she said. ‘If he answers.’

  Wolf chewed his lip. After a second or two, he raised his fist and thumped on the door. Lauren flinched at each thud. Were they doing the right thing? What if this Sammy, or Zamir, or whatever his name was, was dangerous? Armed and dangerous? What if there were other people here? Brains and Muscle for instance. Or that yellow-eyed gunman.

  Wolf lifted his fist and banged again. Thud thud thud.

  ‘Jesus, Wolf, it’s after eleven. You’ll have the neighbours out.’

  The door to the apartment on the right opened a crack. ‘Wer ist das?’ croaked a voice. ‘Who is there?’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Wolf. ‘We didn’t mean to disturb you. We’re friends of Sammy. Zamir. Have you seen him today?’

  An elderly woman, shawled and crone-humped, ventured onto the landing chewing her gums. ‘Eh?’

  ‘Hello,’ Lauren said. ‘My friend Katti is staying here. With Sammy. Have you seen them at all?’

  ‘Eh?’

  Lauren exchanged a glance with Wolf then turned
back to the old woman. ‘It’s okay. We’ll come back another time.’

  ‘Englisch?’ said the woman, spittle forming at the corners of her mouth.

  ‘Er... yes.’

  ‘Foreigners.’

  ‘Oh shit.’ Lauren made a face. ‘Come on Wolf. There’s no answer. Let’s go.’

  ‘They were here.’ The woman drew her shawl tighter around her shoulders. ‘Deutsche Mädchen. Ausländische Knaben.’

  ‘A German girl and a foreign youth?’ Wolf said. ‘Yes. That’s them.’

  The crone chewed her gums some more while she looked Lauren up and down. Another door opened on the floor above and a face appeared over the banister rail. More doors opened up and down the stairwell.

  Great, thought Lauren. Sammy has the nosiest neighbours in Germany. Strange choice of residence for a kidnapper.

  The crone shouted something up at the onlooker above – Mind your own business! from the sound of it – and several doors closed. She scuttled into her flat like a spider retreating into a hole but was back a second or two later. She jangled a bunch of keys, muttering under her breath. Lauren leaned forward, trying to make out what she was saying.

  ‘Her son owns this flat,’ Wolf translated. ‘I think she says he’s renting it out. To a foreigner. She doesn’t approve.’

  ‘Out,’ said the woman, making a broad sweeping gesture with her hands. ‘No more foreigners.’ She unlocked the door to Sammy’s flat and shook her fist. ‘Noisy. Smelly. Criminals. Out!’

  ‘I think she wants us to get his things out.’ Wolf gave Lauren an apologetic look. ‘She is a bit of a throwback, I’m afraid. Some of the really old Germans, you know…’

  ‘Don’t worry about it, Wolf. Works in our favour on this occasion.’