Esther pressed her lips together in a display I hoped was sympathy. Everyone felt so safe in her country. I was sure anyone would find it hard to believe threats could exist in a rural alpine village. Her tone was cautious. I was, after all, a foreign woman questioning the system. It wasn’t the first time I’d wished I felt more accepted by the locals, or could make a friend in the village. Esther was an acquaintance, the mother of a child in Oliver’s class. Kathy didn’t live in the same community, so I didn’t see her as much as I would have liked, even though I knew, back in England, we probably wouldn’t have formed the friendship we had, with little in common other than running.
‘But if someone was suspiciously watching the kids, what are the laws here dealing with such cases?’ I persisted.
‘I am going to ask my brother about the law here. He is a legal assistant for a company in Zug. He may have access to information about these regulations. I cannot believe the police will not act on the report of a stranger talking to a child. I think you must also say it to the teacher of Oliver at school. With both our reports, maybe the school will do something.’
Esther placed her hand on my arm reassuringly before we parted ways, and a brief rush of warmth flooded through me at receiving this simple display of compassion from someone I wondered whether I might one day be able to call a new friend.
As I pulled out of the car park, the figure of a man caught my eye in the entrance of the Co-op, next to stacks of plant trays loaded up with geraniums and marigolds. The screech of tyres and a short chip on a car horn made me slam the brakes in shock. I hadn’t seen a car driving round the bend. If either of us had been going any faster, my left front wing would now be crumpled. With a face bright-red with embarrassment, I lowered the window, put on my best apologetic look and shouted ‘Entschuldigung, sorry!’ to the driver. As I put the Land Rover in gear, I glanced back to the shop. The man I was sure had been Manfred had disappeared.
On our way back from our regular Tuesday run the following week, I slowed down and drew in my breath as Kathy and I passed the old plum tree at the end of the farmer’s driveway. There was no one there, but the air was static with the uncanny sensation that someone had been there recently.
‘Hey, Al, what’s the matter?’
‘Oh, hell, Kath, do you remember the guy I stopped jumping off the Tobel Bridge?’
‘Of course, how could I forget? It’s the story of the year.’
‘I suspect he’s been hassling us – me – making kind of hoax calls. And following me.’
‘Oh divine, a pervert.’ Kathy laughed, shaking her head.
‘It’s not funny, Kath. He approached Oli the other day near the school, and I don’t think it was an accident,’ I said.
We entered the house together and I pulled the key from the inside pocket of my Lycra running pants. Kathy raised her eyebrows without comment.
While she was in the loo, I made us our regular post-run cup of tea. She seemed to be making light of the Manfred situation like everyone else. She had no idea how seriously I was taking this. I felt like I had no one to confide in. As she joined me in the living room, she studied my face.
‘Just tell him to fuck off, Al. Do you really think it’s the same guy?’
‘I’m pretty sure. It started when he texted me after I rescued him. I called him to check on him, to make sure he was okay.’
It wasn’t so much a lie. More that I had missed out a big chunk of the truth. Initially wanting to share my concerns, the unease I felt subsequent to unfolding events now seemed trivial in front of Kathy. I couldn’t explain it. Every time I was about to relate my actions, about meeting him in the café and confronting him in his home, I could only imagine how stupid and unrealistic I might sound.
‘When I had flu in spring, he called out of the blue. He made me feel odd, not that I wasn’t feeling odd enough, but he told me he owed me his life. It’s like he’s trapped in this weird honour code. You know, when you save someone’s life, there’s a compulsory bond.’
‘I can’t believe you didn’t tell me this before,’ said Kath.
‘I haven’t been sure about it until recently. It’s giving me the creeps.’
As if on cue, the phone started to ring. It still made me jump even after all this time. I squinted at the display on the shelf and saw the number was withheld. Kathy’s eyes widened as I quickly lifted the handset and placed it straight back onto its stand, cutting the ringing tone.
‘You think that was him? Jesus, Al. How often does this happen?’
‘Aside from that one time when he spoke to me, there have been several calls before and since I was ill, and whoever it is doesn’t say anything – it’s always a withheld number. I couldn’t be certain, but I’m pretty sure it’s him.’
‘Crikey, recognise his heavy breathing?’ she asked humorously as I sipped the last of my cold tea.
I could tell she wanted to keep the conversation upbeat, couldn’t entertain the fact that such things might happen in our safe little Swiss haven.
‘You should keep a referee’s whistle beside the phone. That’ll soon stop him. Have you called the police?’ she asked more soberly.
‘I went to see them, but they weren’t very helpful. The problem is I don’t have any concrete proof. But I think I should go to them again if I think he’s been in the house.’
‘In the house? When might he have come into the house? I hope you’re keeping the door locked all the time now. It’s always been open in the past. God, if you think he’s been in here, you should really hassle the police. Are you sure…?’
Kathy reeled off the sensible solutions I should have tried. I bit my lip and looked at the shelf where the pictures of our family were lined up.
‘Shit, the missing photo,’ she said.
She stood to leave, looking around as if she might see a stranger walk into the room.
Chapter Twenty-Six
AUGUST
The school holidays started and Simon arranged to take the boys to see the new Transformers film in Zürich on a day I said I had errands to run. I had agreed to drop them off at the Zug train station and pick them up later after they had grabbed a pizza following the film.
As we drove up the driveway, my heart thumped as I saw Manfred in the distance by the farm track. He was leaning against the lichen-covered trunk of the old plum tree. I opened my mouth to say something, but knew I shouldn’t alarm the boys. They were animatedly discussing potential scenarios in the film they were about to see and weren’t paying attention to the environment outside the car. Simon was distracted on his mobile phone, typing some confirmation of a meeting he’d forgotten the following week.
I bit my lip, on the verge of pointing out Manfred to Simon, but kept quiet because of the boys. Manfred’s eyes trailed us as we turned onto the road down to the village. He was wearing an oversized sweatshirt, and his hair ruffled in the wind as he turned to stare after our car. I glanced at Simon, but he didn’t even lift his head. Manfred’s figure looked pathetic as it diminished in my rear-view mirror, his presence confirming my suspicions about his lookout point. None of the others had seen him.
After waving the boys off at the station, I drove into the canton of Aargau. I followed the Reuss River for half an hour until the country roads took me up an escarpment to the village of Buttwil. I had noted the address from the Internet, and found the street on the village plan next to the Gemeindehaus. I left the car in the post office car park and continued on foot.
As I approached the turnoff to Franzenmatt, I felt foolish at the spontaneity of my journey. Did I think Manfred’s sister might be able to help me? Had he left a note when he departed that Sunday to go to the bridge? Had she attempted to look for him? In her shoes, I wouldn’t want to talk to a total stranger. I slowed to a lazy stroll, my face flushing, but not with the physical activity. A trickle of sweat found a free channel next to the vertebrae of my spine.
The drab, undistinguished construction of number four was a bri
ck-and-plaster detached house typical of the late 1970s, when concrete was cheap and Swiss architectural inspiration sadly lacking. The garden in front of the house had been bricked over with concrete interlocking pavers, and a row of straggly ornamental cedar bushes in large pots hid moulding water stains under the windows. To one side of the house stood an open carport, empty but for compost and rubbish bins. A smudge of oil on the concrete floor of the carport showed that a vehicle usually occupied the empty space.
I had come this far, so I strode up to the door and rang the bell. A stark jangle was audible in the unseen interior. I suspected no one was home, but I rang again, confidence rapidly waning at the thought that someone might actually come to the door. After half a minute, I turned to leave, nervous relief gradually replaced with disappointment that I would once again have achieved little in my endeavours to stop Manfred.
As I stepped onto the paved forecourt, a tall young man on a mountain bike sped in front of the fence separating the garden from the pavement. He pedalled in a sharp arc and turned abruptly into the driveway. We surprised each other equally.
‘Oh!’ I exclaimed, as he skidded around me, almost losing his balance.
‘Ops!’ he said simultaneously, braking hard and leaping off the bike at a run. He made a quip about not having seen me.
He leaned the bike against the wall in the carport and came towards me, rubbing his palms down his jeans. He wouldn’t ordinarily have offered his hand in greeting – perhaps I was delivering a letter or package to the house – but his eyes narrowed and a smile played at his lips as he tipped his head on one side.
‘Es duet mer Leid. I’m sorry, I know you, but I cannot recall from where,’ he said in Swiss German.
I had never seen this young man before in my life.
‘I’m sorry, do you speak English?’ I asked, still baffled.
‘Yes, I do, but how do I know you?’ He was now equally confused.
‘I think you must be mistaken. We’ve never met before. I was hoping to talk to a Ms Guggenbuhl, Mr Manfred Guggenbuhl’s sister.’
The young man’s head pulled back, a frown now at his brow.
‘My father doesn’t have a sister.’
He shook his head slowly. A lock of wavy dark hair swung over his brow.
‘Oh! Your father? Your father is Manfred Guggenbuhl?’ I asked, suddenly nervous, remembering Manfred saying I have a boy.
I certainly hadn’t expected his boy to be a young adult. I had envisioned a lad not much older than Leon. And then I saw this handsome young man had the same green eyes as his father. I blushed as I realised my first thought had been if I were fifteen years younger and single…
‘I… I wanted to speak to your aunt. Would that be Ms G Guggenbuhl? I found your address in the phone book.’
I didn’t want to speak to Manfred’s son.
‘Well, no, I have an aunt, but she is my mother’s sister, Katrin Hegi. But G Guggenbuhl is my mother – Gertrude – Trudi.’
His mother?
‘She’s not here, she is at work. I’m sorry, but do I know you? My name is Gerhard, but everyone calls me Gerry.’ He said it with the hard German ‘G’, like Gary, finally holding out his hand to shake. ‘And you are?’
His mother? Manfred’s wife?
‘My name is Alice Reed, you don’t know me…’ Shaking his hand as I said this, I saw Gerry’s eyes open wide with a look I couldn’t fathom, almost horror or shock.
‘I do know you…’ he said, dropping my hand and putting his own to his mouth.
‘No…’
I now felt confused, out of control. I wanted to talk to Manfred’s sister. But now this lad was telling me his father didn’t have a sister, but that his wife, Gerry’s mother, was alive. Is that what he had just said? Manfred’s wife was alive? Why would he have lied about her being dead? I was beginning to think I shouldn’t have come.
‘I think I have made a terrible mistake. I must go, I’m so sorry,’ I said hurriedly.
‘No, please, wait. Please. I need to check, to ask you something. But don’t go away. I have something I want to show you.’
Gerry took out his keys and headed into the house, leaving the door open. Before he disappeared from view, he turned.
‘Please, wait,’ he said again rather bossily, sensing I was ready to dash away. But he was emphatic, and I wondered what it was he had to show me.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Within a minute he was back, holding something in his hand. As he came towards me, looking from his hands to me and back again, his expression seemed almost pained, or bitter. He thrust a picture frame at me and I gazed upon my own face and those of Leon and Oliver, standing at the gates of Versailles. I gasped, and the young man’s face frowned in distress. For him, or for me, I couldn’t tell.
‘Where did you get this?’ I asked, my eyes narrowing.
‘It was in my father’s things,’ Gerry said with a look of disdain.
Waves of hostility were now coming off him.
‘This is where I know you from. The photo.’
‘Your father still comes back here?’ I asked.
An invisible wall came up between us. Yet I was the one who should be angry. This confirmed that Manfred had taken the photo from my home.
‘No, I took this from his things before he finally left. My mother and father agreed they never wanted to see each other again. But he still has a family here too, you know. Do not forget that.’
His anger was now directed at me. I was confused. What had I done? He has a family here too? I suddenly understood.
‘You think these are his kids?’ I asked.
Gerry glared at me, and shrugged.
‘Oh, Gerry, no! Listen, it’s a long story – can we sit here on the steps?’
I walked towards the porch, Gerry following uncertainly. We sat down, and he swept his hair back from his brow with one hand in a gesture not unlike his father’s, before tucking both hands between his thighs. His bitterness had caused the whites of his eyes to redden, making his irises turn a striking green, also inherited from his father. Here was an attractive young man, only a few years older than Leon. How would he react to what I was about to tell him? I tilted the photo frame towards him.
‘My husband, Simon, took this photo,’ I said gently. ‘These are our two sons, Leon and Oliver. Your father removed – stole – this photo from my home.’
Gerry’s expression softened, the wall instantly lowered. But instead of sighing with relief, as I would have expected, he pressed his lips together, his mouth turning down at the corners.
‘I know you think I should be relieved he doesn’t have a secret family,’ he said, ‘but I have been wondering about you and those boys for a while now, I thought maybe there was a chance I had half-brothers.’ He hesitated. ‘I always wanted a sibling. My mother was not able to have any more children after me. Although after my father… anyway, I know now that you are not his other family. But why would my father have your photo?’
Gerry brushed invisible dust from his thighs.
‘What time will your mother be home?’ I asked, ignoring his question.
‘She gets back late on Saturdays. It’s not her normal job. She helps her sister, my Aunt Katrin, at her shop in Muri most weekends,’ he answered.
‘I think I should talk to your mother about… about your father.’
‘It’s okay,’ he said confidently. ‘I am curious to put the pieces of this story together. I know my father has not been… well. And if you wait for my mother, you may not be able to talk to her. She has blocked him from her life, moved on.’
He reached towards the picture frame, then withdrew his hand, realising it was with its rightful owner.
‘At first he came here when my mother was at work and I was at the university,’ he continued. ‘Now I am on holiday and around more often, I thought I might catch him one day. But I think he has found somewhere else to live. In any case, my mother does not speak English, so you would have
to tell me everything anyway, so I could translate to her.’
‘I must tell you about the day I first saw your father,’ I began hesitantly, not wanting to shock Gerry.
There was a slim chance this young man could help me. I couldn’t read him enough to know how he felt about his father, but the family connection must surely still exist. If I played my cards right, here was an opportunity to get Manfred off my back.
‘Some months ago, I found your father on the Tobel Bridge in the canton of Zug where I live,’ I continued. ‘He told me he was planning to take his own life.’
I paused, looking at Gerry. Instead of shock, he rolled his eyes and placed his head in his hands, rubbing the sockets with his palms.
‘Not again,’ he whispered.
Again? Surprised, I felt I had to continue.
‘Since that day, your father believes I am some kind of saviour. He says he has to protect me. He falsely believes I have… feelings for him. He says he has feelings for me. He has been watching me.’
I stopped as Gerry sat up and looked at me.
‘Watching you? This sounds familiar.’ My stomach dropped. ‘How exactly?’
‘He is always around our house, and sometimes he follows me when I am out running. In my country we call this stalking. I have reported him to the police.’
Gerry shook his head.
‘You are a runner?’
‘Yes, I’m training for a marathon,’ I said dismissively.
Gerry looked at me with reverence, but I ignored his silent invitation to elaborate.
‘I want to get your father to stop. I know he is not very well… psychologically. He hasn’t told me what made him go to the bridge that Sunday in April. I was hoping your aunt… I’m sorry, I mean your mother… could shed some light on his problems, find him some help.’
‘We can’t help my father. You are right that he is not well. He suffers from a manisch-depressive Erkrankung, he is bipolar,’ Gerry stated simply. ‘Now he has another obsession to add to his list. There was this woman. A neighbour. But she moved away.’
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