Never Trust a Callboy

by Birgit Kluger

  Salt.

  His fingers moved further, stroked over my chin and down my neck, up to the neck line of my shirt. He skimmed his fingers along the thin fabric without touching my skin.

  A sharp sweet scent appealed to my senses. I opened my eyes and saw Ron holding a lemon in his hand.

  Delicately, he pulled a piece off with his teeth. He smiled as he leaned over to me and licked the salt from my lips. And then he kissed me.

  Suddenly a deep longing spreads inside me. I wish he were here and could help me to cope with the crisis that my life has suddenly turned into. But he's away until Wednesday, and I don’t want to tell him what has happened over the phone. The newspapers are always reporting that phone conversations are being recorded, and besides, what would I say? I had a nice day until I found a corpse in the kitchen?

  A quiet ringing tears me away from these deliberations. A text from Ron. As if he had read my mind and knew that I needed him now.

  “Back to back meetings. How are you doing?”

  How am I? Bad!

  But I can't tell him that, obviously not. If I did he’d want to know what’s going on. And although I want more than anything to talk to him about everything, I answer with the blindingly obvious. I’m at the Albatross having breakfast, I send the text and stare rigidly ahead without noticing that outside gray clouds have amassed and it’s starting to rain. Tomorrow my life can go on again as usual. Or not?

  Who was the dead man? Why was he in our house? And above all, how did he get in?

  I wish I could stop thinking about it. Just turn my brain off and rest for a few hours. But I can't. The questions run on a merry-go-round in my head, driving me almost out of my mind. My thoughts come to an abrupt halt as it dawns on me: I could have answered one of the most important questions a long time ago. I’m an idiot. All I had to do was look in the dead man’s pockets. Maybe he has a wallet. If I’d done it earlier I would probably know who he was by now. The thought of rummaging around in the pockets of a dead man makes me feel a little queasy. Hastily I get up and pay my bill at the counter instead of waiting for the waiter. I’m starting to feel too confined, claustrophobic even. I have to get out of here.

  It's raining as I come out of the café and make my way to the parking garage. It's pretty dark and scary down here, at least if you’ve had a day like I have. With my head bowed, I meander between the cars. I step out on to the narrow road which separates two rows of parked cars, as a squeaking sound draws my attention. Some idiot thinks this is the right place for a car race.

  The sound is coming closer. I quickly cross the narrow street to get to my car. Hopefully before the would-be racer kills me with his car fumes. The engine noise is getting louder. I look around starting to feel anxious. I’m staring directly into the headlights of a black BMW that’s headed straight for me, and it isn’t reducing its speed.

  Now I know why deer never move when they are caught in headlights.

  7

  With a sharp jerk I’m yanked to one side. The BMW races past me so close that it almost scratches me.

  "Bastard!"

  Trembling I turn around. A handsome older gentleman smiles back at me. "You got lucky miss. Young people these days," He shakes his head, "they’ve hardly got their driving license, and they think they’re Sebastian Vettel."

  "Thank you, thank you," I stammer, still in shock. Luckily he speaks without a dialect. Otherwise, I would probably not understand one word. Hysterical laughter starts to rise in my throat, but hastily I urge it back. If I start laughing now I won’t be able to stop. The hysteria will grab hold of me.

  "No problem." With these words, he tips his hat and leaves.

  I stand still next to my car and try to breathe deeply, although my chest feels constricted. It feels as if I’m wearing a steel corset. Again I try to take a deep breath. Better. Slowly it’s getting better. I’ve had some practice today.

  The man must have been right. It must have been some young guy who wanted to play formula 1 driver and didn’t see me.

  If I close my eyes, I can see the face of the driver in front of me. Dark hair, sunglasses, at least 35 years old. Not exactly young. Still, no one wants to kill me. Definitely not.

  A light drizzle has created a misty veil over the garden. Water drips down on me from the branches of the weeping willow as I inspect the ground some hours later and wish I could be in bed with a good book instead. But it's not going to happen. Sooner or later I have to bury a dead body.

  I set to work without much enthusiasm. The earth is wet and heavy, earthworms squirm in every mound of earth I lift with my shovel. It's not yet been ten minutes and I'm exhausted, my back is a sea of flames. But I’ve only just started, the marked rectangle is only a few centimeters deep.

  I would love to throw down the shovel and crawl away into my bed and cry. This is the worst day of my life, and it’s nowhere near over. I have to pull myself together. There’s enough time for self-pity later, I admonish myself. I will continue to work as long as it takes to get the hole finished. I'm not going to think of anything to distract me. Not a thing! I will dig as long as I need to in order to put this disturbing work behind me.

  At some point I can’t work any longer, and coaxing myself doesn’t help at all. I'm completely exhausted. Every shovel of earth I pick out is heavier than the one before. I can barely manage to tip the dirt on to the side. With a loud moan I throw down the shovel, stagger over to the thick stem of the weeping willow, and let myself slide down it to the ground.

  I need a break. Just a few minutes, then I can continue ...

  Something wet is dripping on my head. Again and again. With great effort I open my eyes. I need a moment to orientate myself. Amazed, I register that I managed to fall asleep. I’ve been taking sleeping pills for weeks, and then here, despite the rain, cold and the fact my whole body is in pain, I nod off.

  My eyes fall on to the sorry pit that I dug out. How can I do the rest when I feel like this? Sighing I drag myself up. It’s no good. If I don't want to land in jail, I have to carry on.

  Luckily the rain has abated, and the full moon casts a bright, milky light on the garden, which allows me to see what I'm doing. The moon hangs large and heavy in the sky and keeps me company. But then, all of a sudden, it becomes dark. Small wafts of clouds are obstructing the white disc that was my only friend, and a strong wind is starting to pick up. Leaves rustle. A branch cracks. I hear a whisper behind me.

  What was that? The fright clings to my heart like an iron fist. I stop. Listen. Is anybody there? I strain to recognize any sound in the dusk.

  Again, a branch cracks. It rustles. All of a sudden my breath catches in my throat, an unwelcome thought rumbles in my head: I'm all alone with a dead body.

  It wouldn’t surprise me if the spirit of the man appears, angry at the fact I want to bury his body rather than to provide justice. A cold shudder trickles down my back. Something slick touches my arm, and I take a step back. My heel lands over the edge of the pit and I have to fight for my balance. And then I hear it... a choked scream.

  Seconds later I sit huddled on the ground next to the grave trying to calm myself down again. It takes me a while to realize that I was the one that screamed. Nothing happened. Nothing. Nothing at all. If I tell myself often enough, maybe I’ll believe it.

  Slowly, very slowly, I start to feel better. It was only the wind. That's all. A leaf from the bush next to which I’ve been cowering has scratched my arm.

  With a deep breath, I get up, grab the shovel again. Enough! I will bury this damn corpse and then go on with my life.

  Eventually the hole is deep enough. With a relieved sigh I drop the shovel on the ground and drag the dead man across the few meters that lie between his place under the trees and the fresh grave.

  And then I stand undecided and rigid on the plastic tarp. I have to do this, the thing I’ve been preparing myself for all this time. I have to bury him. But before that I have to cope with yet another gruesome task:
I have to search him. Maybe I can find a clue to his identity.

  For the hundredth time that day I wish I were far away.

  Gathering my courage I free him from the tarp so that his body lies in front of me. Timidly I pat down his pockets. Nothing. They seem to be empty. Now I can wrap him again and...

  No. I have to be certain.

  Through clenched teeth I dip my hand into one jacket pocket, then the other. I search through the pants pockets as well. But I can't find anything. So I'll bury him now... And in doing so, do something which is definitively morally and legally wrong.

  This thought makes me pause. I’ve thought about it for a long time, whether or not I should put my plan into action. Is there really no other solution? No, I don’t imagine even the best lawyer could get me out of this bind. Too much evidence against me.

  A shot of icy air sweeps through the garden and makes me shiver. It's cold. My clothes are soggy and sticking to my body. It's raining still. Almost as if the weather were mourning the deceased. Which is perhaps a good thing, when you consider that otherwise, there isn’t a single soul at his funeral. Aside from me of course, but clearly my reason for being here is not that of a grieving survivor.

  I apologize to the man for the fact I’m about to push him unceremoniously into a makeshift grave. I’ll make it up to you. I promise. I just don't know when and how I’ll do it.

  With a heavy thud, the tarp lands in the pit, the body still wrapped inside. I heap the soil in, roll out the grass mats and smooth down the earth around it. And then I leave everything and go back to the house.

  8

  As I wake up it seems to me as if I’ve only just laid down. The phone. Damn it! I Should have turned it off.

  I rub my eyes tiredly. I'm trying to ignore the ringing. Then, finally, it stops. Good. Go back to sleep.

  My phone on the bedside table vibrates seconds later. Crap!

  My mother. Of course. Who else would dare to call me so early? A glance at the alarm clock tells me that it’s 7: 30.

  "I’m not well. I’ll call you tomorrow," I say into the phone and finish the conversation before she can protest.

  When I wake up the next time, it's three o'clock in the afternoon. Despite the long sleep I still feel like every fiber of my being is on fire. I also feel disgustingly dirty. Last night I was too tired to take a shower.

  With quiet moans I set about transforming myself into a normal person again. I wash off not only the dirt but with it the uneasy feeling that comes over me when I think of the thud with which the corpse landed in the pit.

  No! Better think of curtains. White curtains or blue. For all I care they can be green. We need a black three-piece suite. Maybe I can go on the search for one today, or tomorrow. Next week is soon enough.

  On the way from the bathroom to the stairs I have a bad feeling. The first step seems to me like the gate to the underworld. What if a stranger has been in the house again without my knowledge? Nonsense! Of course everything will be exactly as it should be. Yet my legs do not obey me. Which is completely idiotic, because my life really cannot get any worse than it is right now.

  With all the willpower I can muster I put my right foot on the top step, drag my left foot forward and take a step down. Then again with the right foot... and so on, until I arrive in the hallway. In my mind's eye I can see a dead guy cheekily grinning at me. The image is persistent, it can’t be dislodged from my mind. I would actually like to go to the kitchen, but it’s as though an invisible hand is pushing me back. Maybe later. Right now I have to clean up the terrace anyway. I stuff the wet clothes in a trash bag and throw everything into the trash can. The garbage will be collected tomorrow, then the last vestiges of my nights activities are removed.

  It is shortly before half past five, as I turn into the hotel parking lot. Just in time for the cooking class I go to once a week. I'm glad that I can escape here, can get away from the house, even though I am dead tired. Maybe cooking will get my mind onto other things. If I concentrate on the work in the kitchen maybe I can avoid thinking about it, the body... I need something to keep my head busy, other than my current problems.

  The course is supposed to be a surprise for Ron. He doesn’t know that I am resolved to be a perfect hostess for his demanding business lunches, and become an equally good cook. However I have discovered my resolution is much more difficult than I ever could have imagined. In the last few weeks the idea of hiring a catering service, rather than having to dream up elaborate menus which I then need to prepare without any problems, has become more and more appealing. No one would need to know. I'm pretty sure that the wives of all the bankers in Ron's circle of acquaintances are able to spontaneously conjure up a dinner for 15 people. Unfortunately, I lack this talent, and, if I'm honest, I lack the enthusiasm for such an undertaking.

  But if there’s something I can do today that’s of no consequence, then I’m sure this is it. As long as I am surrounded by other people and only have to agonize about how to make a Crème Brulée without setting the hotel on fire, I’m sure I can manage.

  Before I get out of the car, I check my make-up, skillfully tracing the lines of my lips with lipstick. I smile at myself in the mirror and have just decided to refresh my eyeliner again as... It can't be! The eyeliner falls out of my hand leaving a black stripe on my white blouse. I realize that, however, much later, because all of my senses are busy at this moment processing the shock. They are not very successful. I stare with wide open eyes at the rear view mirror, even though the couple that alarmed me are long gone.

  "It can’t be.” I whisper. “Please, dear God, don't let it be true." Honestly I don't think that God hears me. Lately, he has far more important things to do than to pay attention to my prayers.

  9

  I drive back to the house like a zombie. While my body mechanically repeats the necessary movements needed to get me home, the scene plays over and over again in my mind's eye: Ron and a strange woman walking arm in arm across the hotel parking lot, then they stop and share a kiss. In my mind’s eye I watch the whole thing. I imagine them going into the hotel, lying together in bed and exchange kisses. Ron, whispering in her ear that he’s never had such great sex... As this image enters my head I almost drive into a tree, but something, maybe survival instinct, forces me to turn the wheel just in time.

  And then I'm finally in our neighborhood. I enter our home, let the front door lock behind me, drag myself up the stairs into our bedroom and crawl into bed. Sleepwalking must feel something like this. Not quite conscious, but also not really asleep. Sleep! That's exactly what I need. Dive into oblivion, just for a while to not be part of this world. Tomorrow, when it is bright again, everything will be better. Tomorrow, I will realize that I had a bad dream. That Ron is on a business trip. Just as he told me he was.

  Ron is in Brussels!

  The thought pops into my head, but at the same time I’m overcome with doubts, followed by a guilty conscience. I only looked in the rear view mirror briefly. So why am I so sure that I saw Ron with this stranger?

  I wipe the last tears away with the back of my hand. Of course it wasn’t Ron! I'm uptight. The stress of the last two days, the nearly sleepless night, and the fears that I’ve been carrying around with me have all caused me to overreact. It is not surprising that I am at my wits end. And imagining things that clearly haven’t happened. Ron is in Brussels! He looks similar to the man in the hotel parking lot, but that's all.

  Determined I push myself up off the bed, throw back the blanket and make my way to the bathroom. A pitiful figure faces me in the mirror. My hair is a confused nightmare while my face is red, with two swollen shiny eyes. Not to mention my totally crumpled, dirty blouse.

  I try to wash away the traces of my breakdown with cold water. It is not much help, but I feel a little better by the time I turn away from my sad reflection and go downstairs.

  Once in the basement I survey the abundant selection of expensive bottles, which are carefully lined up in f
ront of me. Fortunately, Ron has organized the supplies well, and so I know where the good wines can be found.

  With a bottle in hand, I head for the living room, get a glass, and sink with a deep sigh into a chair. Then I pull out the cork with a slow, methodical movement, pour myself a generous helping and take a deep gulp. The velvety flavor explodes in my mouth. But even better is the pleasantly relaxed feeling that begins to set in after another gulp, a feeling like a cuddly blanket falling over me.

  Unfortunately, the relaxed feeling doesn’t stay for long. The image of the couple ardently embracing in my mirror is persistent. It comes up constantly in my thoughts, and each time it does I take another sip of the ruby-red drink. That works... for a few seconds at least, then another memory sneaks into my head. I hear the gunshot, which I fired without meaning to. Just as well I’ve already covered the bullet hole with a picture. I hate to think what Ron’s reaction would be if he discovered it. And with regard to his gun, it’s now resting on the bottom of my clothes dresser, neatly wiped down.

  I feel like a criminal.

  I am a criminal!

  I'm not, I think to myself defiantly. Yes you are! No I'm not!

  Since when is it not a crime to conceal a murder? This question silences my inner monologue for a moment. But then, everything revolves, images swirling confused together. Stop! I want it to stop!

  But it's getting worse. The alcohol was maybe not such a good idea, because now I'm losing control. I breathe deeply, trying to calm myself down like so many times in the last two days, with slow, deep breaths. But it doesn't work. Instead my head feels as it was filled with helium and could float away. Too late it occurs to me that I haven't eaten today. No wonder the wine has had such a resounding effect.

  I painstakingly bring my thoughts to something resembling order. The chaos reigning in my brain is driving me crazy. I should clean up my mind like you’d clean up a home, do a spring clean, then I’ll feel better. Definitely. Somewhat groggy I get up, grab a sheet of paper and a stray pen from Ron's office. I'll make a list: it will help me to drive away the uninvited images and fears.