‘I’m just going out to grab a few things. Is there anything you want?’ He looks at her, almost a smile, and she hates him for this confusion, for acting so normal.
‘Can’t I come with you?’
He closes the fridge door, grabs his wallet from the bench. ‘You don’t have your shoes on.’
He moves past her to the hallway, and she grabs at his arm. Her fingers latch onto the weave of his knitted jumper, but he keeps walking, jerking her arm in its socket, and she is forced to let go, fingers burning.
‘I’ll be back soon.’ He marches down the hallway, and she bolts after him.
At the door she hooks her arm through his as he turns the key. ‘I’m coming with you. I don’t want to stay here.’
‘Clare!’ He tries to wrench his arm away, but she holds tight. If he opens that door she will escape.
‘Andi! Let me out! I can’t stay here!’
‘Yes, you can.’ Yanking his arm free, he pushes her roughly away; she is amazed at the strength of him. He twists the key in the lock, opens the door. She lunges forward, tries to squeeze herself between him and the door, but he is too quick. He wedges himself into the space, slams the door shut behind him, forcing her to throw her hands up so that her fingers won’t be crushed.
‘Andi! Let me out! Andi!’ She grabs at the door handle, hears the smooth click as the lock slides into place. ‘Andi! Stop being such an asshole! You can’t do this.’ She beats on the door with tightly closed fists, her fingernails digging into her palms, her knuckles singing out in pain. When she stops, his footsteps have already faded away, and she is alone again. This is no dream.
She must get out. She needs to think about this rationally. She puts on her boots, ready for flight. Her bags are still packed and waiting. In the living room, she tries the handle of each of the windows. Locked, locked, locked. Methodically, she goes through each room in the apartment and tries every window. They are all locked. She hits her hand hard against the glass, and the thud is dull. The windows are double-glazed: a vacuum traps any sound she makes. Would it be possible to break the glass? And then what? She looks at the facade of the building opposite. There is nothing to cling to; she could not climb down and five storeys is too far to drop.
She moves through the apartment searching for clues as though she is in a puzzle book, certain that there must be an answer to her dilemma. As she opens every cupboard and drawer, she does not find anything to give hope. She comes across a blister pack of tablets in the cutlery drawer. Their pharmaceutical name means nothing to her: neither English nor German, it is a language of its own. That they should be sitting here amongst the forks and teaspoons is strange, but she cannot see how they might help her and she drops them back into the drawer, slamming it shut. She runs her fingers around the doors, the windows. Everything seems so solid. She has never thought of walls as something to keep her in before; they have always been only shelter, a means to keep intruders out.
She has not eaten since yesterday afternoon. In the kitchen she chews on bread, but her mouth refuses to make enough saliva to let it slide down her throat, and she spits it into the bin. She needs to think. From a pot in the fridge she spoons some yoghurt into her mouth; slices an apple into small, undemanding pieces. She contemplates the knife in her hand. It’s the only way. She will have to ambush him. When he comes in the door, she will take him by surprise, knock him over and run. She will leave her bags, her camera, everything. She can come back with police. She will make him pay.
She opens a kitchen drawer, looks at the other knives lying there. Could she actually stab him? She imagines the motion, her arm drawing an arc through the air towards his heart. But it is like hitting him over the head with the frying pan — it seems too extreme. But it’s not, is it? She is trapped in here. He would do the same to her. Is that what he’s planning? Is this going to get worse? Thoughts of rape, of murder flit through her mind, but she cannot hold on to them; they don’t belong. She weighs the knife in her hand: is it easier to stab someone with an underarm swing or overarm? What does she aim for? Could she actually get close enough to hurt him without him overpowering her? She feels so inept; she is not prepared for this. Will she be able to stick a knife into him, push it through his flesh into what lies beneath? How deep would it need to go? Would he die instantly? Or would she have to stab him again and again? But she doesn’t want to kill him. She really doesn’t want all of that. He is a confused madman, a modern-day fool, but she does not want him dead. And who will believe her story?
She hears his footsteps trip lightly up the stairs. She can do this. As the key is slid into the lock, she runs down the hallway. She hears the bolt slide across and sees the handle turn. The door swings towards her, and she drops her head and charges, knife held tight in her fist. She will get out! It is only three steps, and she knocks Andi towards the wall with her shoulder. He is steadier than she imagined and he holds fast to the door. His hand blocks her way and pulls the door into her shoulder. The pain ricochets through her body, and she drops the knife.She is jammed between him and the door, and her head jerks forward then back.
She screams. It echoes down the stairwell, and she is desperate to follow, her body lunging at Andi, her feet kicking. He lets go of the door, shoves her back into the hallway, and slams the door shut. She hits the wall, her knee buckles, but she will not give up — the door is still unlocked. She slams her elbow into his back, tries to push past him to the door. But he turns and grabs hold of her arms, twists her away from him, and seizes her in a tight embrace.
Shit. She took him by surprise. Holding her against his body, he uses his free hand to slip the key into the lock and turn it. She’s wrestling to get away, but he won’t let go until he has the key in his pocket.
‘Fuck you, Andi!’ She pelts him with the words as she twists herself free of his grasp. She sounds like she hates him. The knife spins out from her stomping feet, sliding into the skirting boards.
Was she going to stab him? She wants to kill him? He does not hear what she is saying. Her face is red, slick with tears, and the sounds cascade out of her mouth. She is waving her arms about; her hands hang loose at the end of them, as though they might fly away, until she grabs at her hair, tethering them to her shouting face. She is pure sound, no language — her words like panicked animal calls.
‘I want out, Andi! Can’t you let me out? I don’t want to be here. Why do you want me here if I don’t want to be here?’
He watches her hands tear at her hair and wonders if it hurts. He does not want her to be in pain.
‘I hate you, Andi! What are you doing? Why are you like this?’
She is race-calling the words: there is no emphasis or phrasing. He reaches out to her; he wants to make her stop. He pulls one of her hands free of her hair and brings it to his chest, as though to protect it. She keeps shouting, and he takes his other hand to enclose hers. He is holding her hand in prayer, and still the noise does not stop.
He coos her name, and her hand jumps, tries to wrest itself free. He cannot hear her words; he can just see her mouth opening. Up, down; up, down. When he pulls on her little finger, it yields far more easily than he expected. He thought he might have to tug it, entice it with his whole body weight. It pops like a still-green twig, unwilling to give up the fight but helpless to do anything about it.
For a second there is silence as her legs collapse beneath her. She drops towards the floor, but he will not let her give in. He holds her up, wraps his arms around her, and she screams. It is an unreal sound, haggard and splitting, yet amongst it he recognises one word.
‘Andi!’
His name fights out of her mouth between the anguish and surprise. It is propelled by pure desperation — he can hear that, too. She does need him.
And then her scream breaks, and she folds in on herself and moans. He tries to lift her, but she is too heavy, her body leaden
, and he moves her awkwardly down the hallway and into the living room where they stumble to the couch. She collapses onto it and curls herself into a corner where her moans become sobs.
He has dislocated her finger; he did this to her. What sort of person is he? Looking down at her crumpled body he tries to feel, but his emotions are absent. He should feel remorse, he knows he should, but it is crowded out by satisfaction. He is in control. This is the way things have to be. They are in this together now.
‘I’m sorry, sweetie.’ He crouches down to her. ‘I’m sorry, I really am. I had to make you listen — you were only going to hurt yourself.’ He puts his hand on her shoulder. Her sobs are slowing.
‘Let me take a look at it.’ He draws her hand towards him. The little finger sticks out awkwardly, dislocated. Her whole body is quivering. His heart is racing; he will make it better for her.
‘I’m going to fix it for you.’ He takes her finger and swiftly moves it back into position. It makes the same pop, and she shudders.
‘Just hold it like that, Clare.’ He puts down her hand and goes to the bathroom where he finds a bandage. Gently, so as not to hurt her, he binds her little finger to the others. He makes a mitten of her hand.
Her finger is throbbing. Dulled pain butts against her skin as though it has somewhere else to go. As she watches the second hand limp around the clock face, she wonders whether her finger’s throbbing is keeping truer time. The pain is taking cues from her heart, her pulse feeding the signals and reminding her that something is not quite right. She lifts her unharmed hand to her chest, seeks out her heartbeat with cold fingers. She cannot find it. Somewhere beneath the cushioning of her breast it beats, but on the surface all is still. She drops her hand to her lap and regards its bandaged partner with suspicion. What is it doing here? What does it want from her? She stands up from the couch, surprised at how holding her hand so stiffly close to her body affects her balance. She needs to do a little skip to keep herself upright and then she is stable, her feet planted on the green rug.
Knowing she will find no way out, but still obliged to search, she steps from the rug. Her socks are loose about her feet, and she walks slowly across the floorboards, careful not to slip. She circuits the living room, so rudely familiar, and tries to see it with fresh eyes. White pipes run above the skirting boards connecting radiators. Furniture convenes with the walls. A bookshelf idles between the two locked windows; a sideboard keeps watch from the far side of the room. Four chairs press up against the dining table, holding vigil upon the untouched breakfast. Fruit performs a still life on the kitchen bench; Andi has left the milk out by the refrigerator. Opening a drawer, she reveals the cutlery resting in its bays, but she closes it quickly, jumping at its rattle. Nothing seems to mean anything; she cannot understand what it is all for.
In the bathroom everything is cold. The tube of toothpaste is clammy in her hand, the bar of soap appears dry, but when she takes it from its dish its bottom is soggy to touch. Surely the soap is useful; she could rub it against something, make something come loose, and take her leave. She returns it to its dish. In the bedroom her socks catch on the matting, and she opens the wardrobe, hoping for a Narnia escape. But the wardrobe holds only clothes; her imagination is not rich enough for this situation.
She lies on the bed, her bandaged hand stretched out and quarantined from harm, and closes her eyes. But the smell of the sheets is unforgiving; she feels the tears cooling on her cheeks before she realises she is crying. She pulls herself up from the bed, not bothering to wipe her face. She tries once more to open the front door, but it is still locked.
The television tower peers in at her through the living-room window, stoic as a prison guard. She thinks about drinking gin slings, she thinks of fun parks and bookstores. Why did she never think of this? Sun glints off the tower; arching an eyebrow, it is sceptical of her excuses. She curls into a ball on the couch, her toes digging into the cleft between the cushions. She is too scared to cry.
Andi takes three books from his locker and puts them in his bag. There is no one else in the staffroom. He does not want to go home, is not ready to face her just yet. He puts the books back in his locker, one at a time.
He has tried to make everything as normal as possible. After bandaging her hand, he had unpacked her bag, made room for her belongings amongst his own. Her clothes are so small in comparison to his. They had been twisted and folded into little bundles, and when he shook them out they released tiny clouds of her scent. These clothes know Clare better than he: all day they cling to her skin. He realises he cannot actually be jealous of clothes, but he feels something very similar, and it makes him uncomfortable.
He had gone to a hardware store and bought a tiny safe in which to keep his keys and his phone. The safe has a six-digit combination, and its simplicity pleases him — it makes him more certain that nothing will go wrong. He does not want to make this harder on either of them; he wants all of the possibilities to be erased and for normality to settle. He is amazed by how easy it has been to complete each step. To lock the door. To not leave a key. To take the SIM card. Each of these things is just a tiny action, but each one allows him to breathe a little easier.
When he leaves the apartment every morning for work, he places the safe in the stairwell. He does not want Clare cracking the combination in his absence, does not want to think about her trying. But at the moment she is not trying anything. It has been days since she last spoke to him, not a word since she hurt her hand, and he has given up hope of anything changing. The apartment is becoming a bell jar; there is no sound or movement between them. They could be living in completely different spaces, parallel universes, for all the attention she pays him. This is not how he wanted it to be. He is worried she might vanish completely and he does not know what to do.
‘Andi! How are you? What’s news?’ Peter weaves his way through the field of chairs and tables to his own locker.
Andi looks at the book in his hand. He cannot remember if he wanted to take it with him or leave it here. ‘Not much.What about you?’ Andi puts the book in his locker. He cannot concentrate enough to read it at home.
‘Oh, you know, it’s been pretty hectic.’ Peter opens his locker and grabs his bag. ‘Did you hear? Jana and I got engaged.’
‘Congratulations!’ Andi puts down his bag, shakes Peter’s hand. ‘I’m really happy for you both.’
‘It’s good, hey? We just thought, you know, that it was time.’
‘It’s great news.’ And Andi realises that it is, because it’s the excuse he needs to avoid going home. When he returned last night, the apartment was dim. Clare lay on the couch, facing away from him, and she did not move for the entire evening. Not when he patted her back, not when he asked her how her hand was. ‘Do you want to go for a drink to celebrate?’
‘Sorry, Andi, I can’t. We have dinner with Jana’s parents, and I’m already running late.’ Peter gives him a grin. ‘You know what it’s like.’
‘Of course.’ He has no idea. He imagines dinner with Clare’s parents. Does she even have parents? ‘Well, another time. Congratulations, Peter.’
‘Thanks.’ Peter hurries to the door. ‘Tschüss.’
Andi takes up his bag and trails Peter out into the deserted corridor. He wanted to tell him about Clare, to share his news, but how can he? It would be the beginning of too many questions. What has he done? He cannot keep her locked in his apartment. It’s ridiculous. And criminal. But what is the alternative? He cannot let her go. He just cannot. It’s going to be alright — he knows it is.
He recalls Clare as she was, that very first day, reading in the square, and he is consumed by unadulterated pride. She is his. She is home, she is waiting for me. He pictures her bent over in laughter after their adventure through the theme park. The way she pulled him into the shower; her naked body on his bed. He thinks of bandaging her hand: how useless it was, ly
ing there damaged. She needs him. He needs to be with her.
Each day while Andi is at work she unwraps the bandage. Holding her injured hand in the other as though to keep from dropping it to the floor, she turns it this way and that, inspecting it from all angles. She cannot quite believe that he did this to her, but the proof is irrefutable. For the first couple of days it was hideously swollen; it looked as though something inside was fighting to get out, and she wondered whether some part of her was permanently broken, not just displaced. But the swelling has receded, and she can see that it is not going to remain misshapen. She will be fine. Absolutely fine.
How can her body betray her like this? As the bruising fades, her hand reproaches her. I’m doing okay, it seems to say. Why aren’t you? She finds herself bumping her hand on the tabletop as she walks around the apartment, looking for a way of escape. She lets it graze against the wall, knocks it against the windowsill, satisfied only when the pain asserts itself.
He had taken her hand. He had held it to his chest as though to comfort her. He had entwined his fingers with hers, as lovers do. She had tried to pull away. She wanted him to let go, to let her be. And that’s when he had tugged down: her finger just gave way, like it was colluding with him. She had not experienced such pain before. It shot up her arm like fire, it stabbed into her belly, it shook at her knees. And just before she shut her eyes tight, white diamonds dancing across her eyelids, she saw his face. He was smiling. Wasn’t he?
What went wrong? When should she have made a different decision? When they met? When she accepted the first strawberry? Of course, but she knows that she would do that again. When she stood behind him in the bookstore, was that it? Did he think her so alone that she needed this? Or when she went home with him, when she drank, when she undressed, when they fucked? But all of these she would do again, every single one of them. She racks her memory, but there is nothing there: not a single moment that acted as a warning that he was so unhinged. For this is what he must be.
Berlin Syndrome Page 10