‘You haven’t seen my boys for ages. You’d be surprised how tall Leon is,’ I said. ‘It won’t be long before he overtakes me, or Simon for that matter.’
‘Well, you’re both tall, Al, so it’s a given they’ll be giants of the next generation, especially with cooked lunches every day of the week.’ Kathy winked at me.
I placed my mug on the table and pushed myself up off the sofa.
‘It must be here somewhere,’ I said absently. ‘I had a photo of me with the boys, here…’ I pointed towards the bookshelf. I picked up a framed photo of Simon and me on our wedding day, which had fallen over on its face. I propped it back up on its stand next to one of my athletics trophies.
‘The photo was taken in front of the gates at Versailles on our trip last autumn. It shows Leon within inches of my nose in height. Even I was shocked when I saw it. Where is the damn thing? Oh, well. Tommy must be getting tall now. Matt’s tall too.’
Kathy smiled. ‘He seems to have stalled a bit… well, everywhere except his feet. At Christmas I bought him a new pair of Keds and then at Easter we had to go shopping again. His feet had grown another size. It’s costing a fortune in…’
Kathy droned on, but I wasn’t paying attention any more. Where was that photo? Someone must have moved it. I checked the back of the bookshelf to see whether it had fallen over. I suspected the boys had been throwing a football around the living room in my absence.
‘I’ll walk you to your car,’ I said as Kathy gathered her things to leave.
As we came out of the house, an unusual silence surrounded us. The farmer had stopped his tractor-mower in the middle of the field. He sat at the wheel, hand on his chin, studying a Braunvieh, one of the unpretentiously named Brown Cows, which had lumbered away from the herd in a neighbouring paddock. The bells had momentarily quietened, and the herd was strangely still. The cow raised her pale muzzle to the sky, her chocolate-brown pelt gleaming, her fluffy ears waggling. She shuffled strangely on the spot, and a pinkish-brown wet bundle slithered to the grass. My eyes opened wide in wonder.
‘Holy cow!’ screeched Kathy, and we both laughed.
‘You’ve just witnessed the miracle of birth, my dear. Easy as pie.’
We watched the newborn calf, now being sniffed and prodded by its mother as it lay on the grass. The birth membrane stretched as the young animal tentatively moved its limbs. The other cows gathered in a bizarre ritual circle around the calf, watching the proud mum with their doleful eyes.
‘Blimey, I wish Tommy had been that simple to push out. We might have considered a sibling.’ Kathy smiled.
When the farmer could see the calf was healthy and moving, he rushed back to the barn to fetch his flatbed truck. I knew he would remove the newborn, take it to the barn, and that I would be haunted by the heartbreaking moos of the orphan mother. I kept this news from Kathy.
‘And here comes your number-two calf,’ she said.
Oliver wandered down the driveway, swinging his schoolbag, deep in thought. He suddenly spotted the calf in the field and I smiled as he stopped to stare open-mouthed at the little creature now struggling onto its bandy legs.
The farmer drove back down from the barn and stopped in front of us on the way to the field.
‘You must tell your young man not to get close,’ he said.
I looked at Oliver who was hesitantly moving towards the group of cows to get a better look. Kathy reached into her bag for her car keys as the farmer continued.
‘These old girls seem so docile and friendly now. But never get between a mother and her young, or there will be big trouble. Hoi!’ he shouted to Oliver, who stepped back onto the driveway, pointing at the cows and babbling excitedly.
‘A cow protecting her kalb can kill a man,’ concluded the farmer.
Chapter Twenty
The boys had long ago made it clear they were beyond bedtime cuddles, but I habitually looked in on them before I turned in. On more than one occasion I had gently removed the headphones from Leon’s unruly hair while he slept, performing an elaborate manoeuvre to untangle the cable from around his face and arms.
On weeknights, they were both asleep well before I went to bed, but one night, as I looked in on Oliver, a barely audible sniff and a movement of the covers indicated he was still awake. I was about to close his door, thinking it was just a break in his sleep pattern, when he called to me.
‘Mum? I can’t sleep,’ he stage-whispered.
‘Are you okay? Can I get you a drink of water?’
Perching on the edge of his bed near his pillow, I began stroking the hair from his forehead. Oliver sighed and cleared his throat.
‘Mum, remember that man I said was outside the school a couple of weeks ago?’
The regular combing of my fingers through his locks halted briefly before I continued, to avoid conveying any worry.
‘Yes, sweetie, I remember. Have you seen him again?’ I enquired, keeping my tone light.
‘Not just saw him, Mum. He followed me up the road. I know you always told us not to speak to strangers, but he surprised me as he kind of bounced into step next to me. Then he started talking, like he knew who I was. It was weird, and he asked some strange questions.’
‘Are you sure it was the same man?’
‘Pretty sure, although he wasn’t wearing the same clothes, and maybe his hair was different, longer than last time,’ Oliver reflected.
‘What kind of strange questions did he ask, Oli? Did that man touch you?’
‘He put his hand on my shoulder, if that’s what you mean. Kept it there while we walked.’
Oliver eyed me warily as if he knew what I really meant.
‘He yelled at Frau Biedermann’s dogs when they ran up and down the fence barking as usual. That made me laugh, ’coz they’ve always made me jump. But it was like he knew I’m bothered by the dogs.’
‘What was the weird thing he asked you, Oli?’ I asked.
‘He asked about you. Asked if I thought you were happy. Happy in the family. He asked me like there was something you shouldn’t be happy about. Like he wanted me to rat on you or something. You know, like when you and Dad have a discussion about stuff.’
Whoa. I recognised my own use of the word ‘discussion’. There had been the occasional tense conversation lately, mainly about preoccupations I wasn’t sharing with Simon, but I didn’t think we’d had any discussions Oliver would be aware of.
‘You know you shouldn’t talk to strangers.’
‘I know, Mum, but he was walking with me. It’s pretty hard to ignore someone who’s practically carrying your schoolbag home for you.’
‘Did he talk about anything else? Was anyone else with you? Last time you said Sara saw him too.’
I suddenly became concerned about Oliver walking home alone.
‘I think he waited until Sara had gone up her road. Maybe he’s lonely. He kind of made me feel strange, Mum, but you’re making it sound scary. Why would he ask so many questions about you? What’s up? You must know this person, right?’
I cleared my throat. I was on the verge of telling Oliver this man was probably the same one I had saved, but I thought it might conjure up scarier thoughts in his head.
‘Oh, it’s nothing, sweetie. He’s just someone I know vaguely. I don’t really want you talking to him, though. Can you do me a favour? For the rest of the week, can you come home by way of Sara’s house? I know it’s a bit of a diversion, but I’d feel happier if I knew you were with someone for that stretch of the walk.’
‘Mu-um. That’s a steep path she goes up. It’ll put ten minutes on my walk. Come on!’
‘Please, Oli, just for a few days, okay? And Oli, you don’t need to tell your dad. He’s so busy with his project right now, we don’t need to bother him with this.’
A pulse ticked at my temples.
‘All right.’ Sullen, but sleepy.
The mundaneness of an undesired instruction replaced whatever demons had been playing in Oliver’
s head with regular fatigue, and I could tell he would be asleep within minutes. I kissed him on the forehead, ruffled his hair, drew up the duvet and pulled his door closed as he turned onto his side and sighed.
Something was niggling me from way back. From when Oliver first told me he’d seen Manfred outside the school weeks before. How had Manfred known who he was and where he’d be?
At the computer in the office I clicked open a new window and pulled up the phone directory on the screen, knowing the Swiss Tel Search would give me far more information than merely numbers and addresses. I typed Staatsanwalt and Aegeri into the search field, remembering the policeman had told me Manfred lived in the same residence as the public prosecutor. I noted down the address for a family Steinmann on a piece of paper, catching my breath as I recognised the street – Alisbachweg. Was that a coincidence? The name was uncanny. And it was a stone’s throw from our street.
Chapter Twenty-One
I didn’t wait for the weekend. I had a suspicion Manfred had either taken a holiday allowance, or perhaps even sick leave if he had indeed been placed under psychological care – which I doubted. But I was pretty certain he would be in his new home that day.
The houses in Alisbachweg were some of the most opulent in the village. They belonged to doctors, lawyers or CEOs of international corporations in Zug, of which there were many looking for ever-bigger and showier places to house their families in the vicinity of the unusually small global financial boomtown.
I found the Steinmanns’ home easily. It was a four-storey whitewashed modern block with vast windows taking advantage of a view over the valley not dissimilar to our own at the farmhouse. I knew I couldn’t see this house from our own, so although the proximity of the place to ours made me feel sick, there was a grain of relief in knowing we couldn’t be seen from behind those metres of glass.
I checked the double mailbox at the bottom of the stairs leading to the residence. Manfred’s name, Guggenbuhl, was handwritten on a card and stuck to the box. He must have been waiting for a proper tag to be engraved by his landlord. The wide stairs led up to the main entrance of the house, but a discreet path led around the side of the house and, as I approached, I saw his name again above the buzzer next to the door.
I rubbed my hands down my jeaned thighs and took a deep breath to try to calm my beating heart. I’d been so confident, but now I wasn’t sure. I needed to know what was driving his decision to move into our community.
I reached up and pushed the button. I heard a three-tone electronic bell ring beyond the door, and before the lowest tone had even faded, the door swung open. Manfred wore a T-shirt and jeans, had a day’s beard growth, and his thick hair was mussed as though he’d just got out of bed.
‘Alice! You’ve come to visit!’
I suddenly had the feeling he’d been waiting for me, as though he’d known I was going to come here at this exact moment. My anger rose and I strode in without waiting to be invited.
I walked the length of the hallway, darker at the rear because his basement flat was built into the slope under the main house. I passed a kitchen and a small living room and, to the back, saw a bathroom with a towel on the floor, which brought Leon to mind. To the right was a bedroom with a mattress on the floor, neatly made with a duvet tucked around the edge of the wooden parquet.
‘I’m still waiting for some furniture. A bed,’ he said, and I inexplicably blushed.
I put my hand out to steady myself and grabbed the handle of his bedroom door to close it firmly and put his personal space out of my sight.
‘Manfred, this farce has to stop. I don’t know what you think I can give you. Moving to the village… This is not a good idea. I’m not sure what you want from me. But I want you to stop calling me. And, especially, to stay away from my children.’
‘Oh, come on, Alice. It was a harmless thing, to move here. Do not forget you’re the one who showed me. That was the day I decided this is the perfect place for me.’
No, I could not forget that day. I wondered whether I would ever be allowed to forget it. My ponytail loosened from its scrunchy as I swung around. My hair flew about my face, emphasising my anger. I backed away from his bedroom door and retraced my steps to the kitchen. I looked around at his organised, single-living home. The Nespresso machine with capsules in a wire holder screwed to the wall. Mugs on the shelf. A microwave.
‘You know we have a connection, Alice. Admit it. We have both been to the edge. Looked into the abyss of our lives.’
‘Stop it, Manfred. My teenage error simply isn’t the same as your decision as an adult. You cannot compare.’ I wished I’d never told him. God, I hadn’t even told Simon. I thought it was such an insignificant thing, and had only used it to persuade Manfred not to jump. ‘This is… this is insane, Manfred. Please. I’m not sure what it is you want. But I cannot give it to you.’
‘You can, Alice. You can give me the world. I know you have feelings for me too. That day on the bridge, and later when we met in the café. I’ve seen the passion in your eyes. We are like soulmates. I think you just need time.’
‘What? No! Stop this!’ My voice was rising dangerously in the small apartment. I leaned on the narrow granite table extending from the counter as part of his fitted kitchen. My palms pressed against the surface, as though pushing it between us like a shield.
Manfred came around the table, his head on one side. An arm reached for me, his hand cupped in what looked like a tender gesture, and for one horrible moment I thought I would go to him, was drawn somehow to the will of his obsession.
‘You do know who lives upstairs, don’t you, Alice? He is the public prosecutor for Zug. You know I could have your husband’s permit revoked. He could lose his job. He would have to leave, and we could be together.’
‘What are you saying? This is madness. You’re crazy!’ I yelled.
I stepped backwards, but he continued towards me and I suddenly saw the spark of something else in his eyes, of something evil. He came around behind me and, with one hand on my shoulder, placed the other over my open mouth.
‘Goddammit, Alice. Stop shouting, will you?’
Even his tone was different, had an edge. I had to get away. I reached back and grabbed a coffee mug off one of the hooks and hurled it to the floor. The noise of the shattering porcelain broke the moment. He released me, and I ran towards the front door, hauling it open and breathing in great gulps of air.
I turned as I made my way briskly down the path.
‘It’s over, Manfred. Please. This thing must finish.’
As I backed away, a face ghosted in the giant window of the main house upstairs. A woman. Frau Steinmann, perhaps.
I ran all the way home, up the stairs, and, with my heart thumping, logged back on to the computer. It was all suddenly so clear to me.
One of the most fascinating units in my psychology courses at university had covered severe personality disorders and psychosis. At the time we touched on the clinical characteristics of stalkers, but I didn’t recall ever studying the psychological consequences for victims of stalking. It was all very well knowing the cause, but the pervasive and intense personal suffering was something we never considered in a lecture theatre crammed with one hundred invincible teenagers. Now I felt compelled to understand Manfred’s motivations, and began clicking on stalker profiles on the Internet.
There seemed to be no typical profile for a stalker, but they fell into two identifiable groups. The most common group were the Simple Obsession Stalkers where some kind of romantic or personal relationship had already existed before the stalking began. The second type was the Love Obsession Stalker. This rare category of stalker developed a love obsession with someone they might not even know at all, someone they had no personal relationship with.
Someone like me.
I had somehow triggered Manfred’s obsession by rescuing him on the bridge. It seemed he would most likely focus his entire attention on me, and was unlikely to be dangerous, mere
ly mentally disturbed. I thought of Oliver initially telling me about the stranger outside the school. How many of us were involved here? I breathed deeply, reading on. A stalker’s passivity could only be guaranteed if the victim appeared to play his or her assigned role. Manfred might want to establish a relationship with me, might absolutely believe he could even make me love him, but I couldn’t face having to comply to guarantee his passivity.
I shuddered. To think I had thought he was a kind soul. Attractive even. I couldn’t even begin to imagine the kind of help this twisted soul required.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Simon and I sat at the kitchen table, a cup of tea and a double espresso the only objects filling the space between us. I traced the pattern of the vine print on the tablecloth with my finger, trying to push this horrible feeling to the back of my mind, but knowing I had to say something to him.
Having observed Simon more closely over the past few days, I felt a rush of compassion as I realised how stressed he was about work. We had long ago agreed he would be the breadwinner. It was my job to keep the family and the household running smoothly.
It seemed petty to tell him I suspected Manfred of having attached himself to me in a way that wasn’t normal. I should prove I was capable of dealing with this without disturbing the flow of Simon’s business success. He already thought I’d invested too much of my emotion in the whole affair. But I should voice my opinion to my husband, my best friend, to avoid it festering in my mind. I wanted his support, but not to pressure him into thinking he had to do something about it.
‘Jesus, Al. Don’t you think that’s a bit far-fetched? I know he sent you a text message, but I think your imagination might be running away with you.’ God, he doesn’t know the half of it. ‘Do you really think the guy Oli saw was the same man? Perhaps you should go back to the police. Tell them everything. If you truly think he’s some kind of threat, they need to know, including those weird calls in the middle of the night.’
Strangers on a Bridge Page 8