Therapy

by Sebastian Fitzek

  ‘How dreadful,’ said Viktor with feeling. He was always appalled by the damage caused by incompetent doctors. Their carelessness brought terrible suffering on patients and their families.

  ‘How did you cope with your father's death?’

  ‘Badly. We lived in an end-of-terrace house near Andrew Barracks in the American sector. We adopted a mongrel, a stray called Terry, who lived in our backyard. My father couldn't stand him and banned him from the house. Most of the time he was tied up on a lead by the door. I remember Mum telling me that the operation had gone wrong. As soon as she left the house, I fetched one of Dad's baseball bats – a heavy one made of metal – and went into the yard. Terry's lead was so short that he could hardly move, let alone run away. His legs buckled as soon as I hit him. I could see him whimpering and grovelling on the ground, but I didn't stop. I kept hitting him and hitting him. I was only eight years old and out of my mind with fury and hurt. After about ten blows, I must have snapped his spine. He lay there, howling in agony and coughing up blood, and I battered him to a pulp. He didn't even look like a dog when I was finished.’

  Viktor tried not to show his disgust. ‘What made you do it?’ he asked calmly.

  ‘I loved my father more than anyone in the world. Terry came next. For some reason I got it into my head that I didn't want Terry if I couldn't have my dad. I was punishing him for being alive.’

  ‘It must have been very stressful.’

  ‘It was. But not for the reason you think.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘The story doesn't end there. I'd lost my father and beaten an innocent dog to death, but that wasn't what really upset me.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘What upset me was that Terry didn't exist. I made him up. We adopted a cat, but never a dog. I still have nightmares about what I did to Terry, but I know for a fact that it was a delusion, a product of my illness.’

  ‘When did you find out it wasn't real?’

  ‘Much later. I started seeing a therapist when I was about eighteen and after a while the truth came out. It was the first time I summoned the courage to mention it to anyone. I didn't want people knowing that I'd murdered my dog. They'd only think I was crazy.’

  The poor girl, thought Viktor, giving Sindbad an absent-minded pat. The retriever was sleeping peacefully at his feet, untroubled by the distressing revelations. Anna had suffered dreadfully because of an act of cruelty that she had never committed. That was the tyranny of schizophrenia. Most delusions had the effect of making the sufferer feel useless, evil and unworthy of existence. It wasn't uncommon for patients to surrender to their imaginary taskmasters and take their own lives. Viktor took another look at his watch and was astonished to see how late it was. He would have to leave the Bunte interview for another day.

  ‘Very good, Ms Glass.’

  He stood up purposefully to signal that it was time for her to go. He took a step towards Anna and felt surprisingly light-headed.

  ‘I hope I've made it sufficiently clear that I'm not in a position to treat you,’ he said firmly. He wanted to escort her to the door but he was afraid he might sway.

  Anna looked at him impassively and rose to her feet.

  ‘I understand,’ she said, unexpectedly brightly. ‘Thanks for listening. I'll be sure to follow your advice.’

  Viktor watched her walk to the door and was reminded of something. He tried to pin down the memory, but it eluded him.

  Anna turned round. ‘Are you feeling all right, Dr Larenz?’

  ‘I'm fine, thank you,’ he replied, embarrassed that she had noticed his dizziness.

  The truth was, he felt as if he were recovering from a long voyage at sea.

  ‘Where are you staying?’ he enquired, trying to move the conversation on. He opened the front door and Anna stepped on to the porch.

  ‘At the Anchor.’

  He nodded. Of course. The Anchor was the only guesthouse that stayed open throughout the winter months. It was run by Trudi, whose husband had drowned on a fishing expedition three years earlier. She never turned anyone away.

  ‘Are you sure you're all right?’ she persisted.

  ‘Absolutely. I get a bit dizzy when I stand up too quickly.’ He hoped that he wasn't succumbing to the flu.

  She seemed satisfied with his answer. ‘I'd better get going. I need to pack my things and get an early night. I don't want to miss the first ferry.’

  Viktor was pleased to hear it. The sooner she left Parkum, the better. He wanted to be left alone.

  He shook hands with her again and they parted on affable, almost friendly, terms.

  Later, Viktor wished that he had listened more attentively and noticed the warning signs. But that was the trouble with hindsight. At the time, it didn't occur to him to check that she was really gone. She must have counted on his trusting nature. As soon as the door was closed, she made no secret of her true intentions and set off on a northerly bearing – in the opposite direction to the Anchor.

  6

  No sooner had he got rid of Anna, than he was disturbed again. There was another knock at the door. This time it was Halberstaedt, the mayor.

  ‘You did a great job with the generator,’ said Viktor, shaking the old man's hand. ‘The house was warm when I arrived.’

  ‘My pleasure, Dr Larenz,’ said Halberstaedt gruffly, snatching back his hand.

  ‘So what brings you all this way in such blustery weather? The mail run isn't for another couple of days, is it?’

  ‘I'm not here about the mail run.’

  Halberstaedt was clutching a piece of driftwood in his left hand. He thwacked it against the soles of his black wellingtons to dislodge the sand from the grooves.

  ‘I see. Would you like to come in? There's rain on the way.’

  ‘Thanks, but I don't want to keep you. I was just wondering . . .’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘The woman who was here just now. Who is she?’

  Viktor was taken aback by his bluntness. It was unlike the reserved and courteous Halberstaedt to pry.

  ‘Tell me to mind my own business, but I'd advise you to be careful,’ continued the mayor, pausing to spit out his chewing tobacco which flew over the side of the veranda and landed in the sand. ‘Very careful indeed.’

  Narrowing his eyes, Viktor squinted at him disapprovingly. He didn't like the advice or the tone in which it was given.

  ‘What exactly are you implying?’

  ‘I don't beat about the bush, Dr Larenz. There's something funny about that woman. She's not right in the head.’

  It was natural for people to be suspicious of mental illness, but Viktor was surprised that Halberstaedt had picked up so quickly on Anna's fragile state of mind. He wondered what the mayor thought of him. God knows I'm fragile too . . .

  ‘There's no need to worry about Ms—’

  ‘It's not her I'm worried about. It's you,’ said Halberstaedt sharply.

  The hiatus was over. Anna's sudden appearance and her horrifying story had distracted him for a while, but now the thoughts were back. A million different triggers could conjure the image of Josy in his mind. Raised voices were among them.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘What I said. You need to be careful. I've been living on this island for forty-two years and I've seen people come and go. Some were good, decent folks like you who never made any trouble. Others weren't so welcome. I know a bad egg when I see one; I've got an instinct for it. I knew as soon as I saw her that she was up to no good.’

  ‘Do you have any evidence? Did she say something to alarm you?’

  ‘I never talked to her. I saw her get off the ferry, and I followed her here.’

  That's funny, thought Viktor, remembering Anna's version of the story. There was no reason for her to lie.

  ‘She dropped by the hardware store a couple of hours ago. Hinnerk said that she was acting very strangely.’

  ‘Could you be more specific?’

  ‘She ask
ed for a weapon.’

  ‘A weapon?’

  ‘She made him show her a harpoon and a flare gun, but she bought a carving knife and some fishing twine instead. Why would she do that?’

  ‘No idea,’ said Viktor, who didn't know what to make of the story. Parkum was a sleepy little place. What would Ms Glass want with a weapon?

  ‘Right you are.’ Halberstaedt pulled the black hood of his parka over his head. ‘I'd best be off. Sorry for bothering you.’

  ‘Not at all; it was kind of you to come.’

  Halberstaedt descended the steps to the path and walked to the low gate. He stopped at the picket fence and turned round.

  ‘One last thing, Doctor. We were all very sorry to hear the news.’

  Viktor nodded. There was no need for Halberstaedt to be more specific. People had been offering Viktor their condolences for four years.

  ‘I thought we might help you,’ said the mayor.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘As soon as you got off the ferry, I said to myself that a change of scene would do you good. I thought you were going to put the past behind you and get some colour in your cheeks. The trouble is . . .’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You look paler than ever. Is something the matter?’

  I'm trapped in a nightmare, thought Viktor, the nightmare of my life. And you're not making it any easier. He kept his thoughts to himself, shook his head firmly and almost lost his balance. He was feeling dizzy again.

  Halberstaedt closed the gate behind him and looked at him sternly. ‘Suit yourself. Maybe it's nothing, maybe it's not. Either way, remember what I said about that woman.’

  Viktor merely nodded.

  ‘Look after yourself, Doctor. Keep an eye out over the next few days. I've got a bad feeling about this.’

  ‘I'll be careful. Thanks for the concern.’

  Viktor locked the front door and peered after Halberstaedt through the spyhole. The perspective was rather limited, and within seconds the mayor was out of sight.

  What was all that about? he wondered.

  Eventually he would discover the truth – but by then it would be too late.

  7

  Four days before the truth, Parkum

  Bunte: Do you still live in hope?

  The second question was the worst. After a bad night's sleep and an uninspired breakfast, it was ten o'clock by the time that Viktor started work. Thirty minutes later, he was still staring at a blank screen. At least there was a reason for his sluggishness. He was almost certainly developing the flu. Yesterday's dizziness seemed to have cured itself, but he had a sore throat and a runny nose. All the same, he wanted to make some headway with the interview.

  Hope.

  It was tempting to answer with a question of his own:

  Hope for what? That Josy is still alive or that someone will find her corpse?

  A strong gust shook the lattice window. Viktor vaguely recollected hearing a weather warning on the news. Since yesterday, the island had been bracing itself for the arrival of Hurricane Anton, the tail end of which was set to hit Parkum that afternoon. A grey bank of rain was stacking up over the sea and the first showers, pushed landwards by the ferocious wind, had started to lash the coast. The temperature had fallen sharply overnight and, thanks to the feeble output of the diesel generator, it was chilly enough for the fire to be useful as well as pretty. In fact, it was so dismal outside that even the fishing boats and ferries were heeding the coastguard's advice. From his desk by the window, Viktor was unable to make out a single vessel on the angry-looking sea. He shifted his gaze to the screen.

  Hope.

  Viktor clenched his fists and spread his fingers over the keyboard without touching the keys. On first reading, the question had blasted through his brain, breaking down an invisible dam and flushing out his mind. After the initial emptiness, a single thought took shape, a memory of his father's last days. At seventy-four years of age, Gustav Larenz had been diagnosed with a lymphoma. The cancer caused him constant and excruciating pain, for which he was given a steady stream of morphine, but in the final stages of his illness, no drug in the world was strong enough to take away his suffering. He was tortured by pounding migraines whose potency was reduced to a tolerable level every couple of hours by a fresh dose of pills. Viktor remembered how he had described it: ‘It's like living under a bell jar, surrounded by fog.’

  Now, years later, he understood. His hope was hidden under a bell jar. He wondered whether the father's symptoms had been visited on the son, passed from one generation to the next like a hereditary disease. Only the cancer isn't attacking my lymph glands; it's invading my mind, eroding my spirit.

  Viktor took a deep breath and began to type.

  Yes, he lived in hope. He lived in hope that his housekeeper would announce the arrival of a visitor who would wait in the hallway, cap in hand, and decline the invitation to join him in the lounge. He lived in hope that the uniformed stranger would look him in the eye and say nothing for a moment. And at that point he would know. He would know long before the officer opened his mouth to utter the most final of phrases: ‘I'm sorry for your loss.’

  That was Viktor's hope.

  Isabell hoped for the opposite. He had no idea where she got the strength, but he could tell that her prayers were the reverse of his. Deep down she believed in the future. She believed in a future in which she would come back from a morning's horse riding and see Josy's bicycle in the drive. And before she could pick it up and put it in the shed, Josy would come storming down the path from the lake, laughing and dragging her father by the hand.

  From a distance, the happy, healthy and excitable little girl would shout out, ‘What's for lunch, Mummy?’ and things would return to normal. Isabell would take it in her stride. She wouldn't be surprised and she wouldn't ask questions. She would run her hand over Josy's blonde hair, which would be a couple of inches longer than usual, and accept that she was back and that the family was reunited. She would welcome her return with the same acceptance that she had shown day after day for nearly four years. That was Isabell's unspoken hope.

  Does that answer your question?

  Viktor realized with detachment that he was talking out loud. This time Ida von Strachwitz, the journalist from Bunte, was his imaginary listener. He was supposed to email her with the answers in two days’ time.

  Viktor's laptop made a noise that reminded him of an ancient coffee machine spitting the last drops of water into the filter. He decided to delete the last few lines. To his surprise, he discovered that there was nothing to delete. The sum of thirty minutes’ work was a single sentence, which had no obvious connection to the question.

  The gulf between not knowing and knowing Is the difference between life and death.

  There was no time for Viktor to expand on what he had written because a moment later the telephone rang. No one had called the house since his arrival. The shrill ring and raucous echo shattered the tranquillity of the beach house and made him jump. He let it ring four times before he picked up the heavy receiver of the black dial phone. Like most things in the house, the old-fashioned machine had belonged to his father. It was positioned on a low table next to the bookcase.

  ‘I hope I'm not disturbing you.’

  Viktor suppressed a groan. He had been half-expecting her to call. At the sound of her voice, the dizziness returned along with the sore throat and other symptoms of his cold.

  ‘I thought we reached an agreement, Ms Glass?’

  ‘Sorry,’ said a small voice in reply.

  ‘Aren't you supposed to be leaving this morning? What time is your ferry?’

  ‘That's why I called. I can't go.’

  ‘Can't go?’ Viktor looked to the ceiling in irritation and noticed a few cobwebs in the corner. ‘Listen, Ms Glass, we went over this yesterday. You're in remission at the moment and you're well enough to catch a ferry. I want you to go to Berlin and make an appointment with Professor van Druisen. I'm afraid I
—’

  ‘I can't,’ said Anna quietly. Viktor guessed the reason before she had time to explain.

  ‘It's the ferry. Today's sailings have been cancelled because of the storm. I'm stuck.’

  8

  He sensed it as soon as he hung up the call. There had been something in her voice. It gave him the impression that she had arranged the storm with the express intention of interrupting his work and sabotaging his efforts to lay the past to rest. She had sounded as if she had something to tell him, something so important that she had gone to the trouble and expense of coming all the way from Berlin – and yet she had omitted to mention it yesterday for reasons best known to herself. She hadn't said what it was, but he knew with absolute certainty that she was prepared to stay on the island until she got it off her chest. Fearing that she would arrive at any moment, he decided to have a shower and get dressed. In the bathroom, he dissolved a couple of aspirin in some water and gulped them down on an empty stomach. He could feel the pressure building behind his eyes, a sure sign that a migraine was on its way. Under normal circumstances he would have taken a couple of painkillers at the first hint of trouble, but flupirtine made him sleepy, and he wanted to have his wits about him when his unwelcome visitor arrived.

  As a result, he felt bunged up but not drowsy when a growling Sindbad alerted him to Anna's arrival. It was early afternoon.

  ‘I was out for a stroll and I saw the light in the parlour,’ she said brightly when he opened the door.

  Viktor frowned. Out for a stroll? Only the most dedicated dog owners would venture out in weather like this. It wasn't raining heavily, but the perpetual drizzle was miserable enough. And Anna, in her expensive cashmere suit and high-heeled shoes, was hardly dressed for the conditions. The walk from the village took at least fifteen minutes and the potholed track was flooded already. But Anna's pumps looked as pristine and elegant as ever. And, in spite of the absence of umbrella and headscarf, her hair was perfectly dry.

  ‘Dr Larenz? Is this a bad time?’