Night Driver

by Marcelle Perks

  Heinrich squealed to a stop outside the gynaecologist’s office. Frannie instinctively put a protective hand on her belly. She prayed that nothing bad had happened. She knew bleeding didn’t necessarily mean anything: one of her friends had bled all through her pregnancy with no adverse affects. She went to the toilet and examined her underwear. The blood wasn’t that extensive, no more than a period; it was just that her dress was so thin that it had seeped through easily. And of course she was wearing white, which made it show even worse!

  She exited the bathroom and went back to the waiting room. Heinrich couldn’t stop talking to the receptionist. Presumably he was feeling guilty about performing the emergency stop when the light had only just turned red. She didn’t try to understand the German, had to save herself for Dr Kanton. She was almost instantly taken into a treatment room and hooked up to the ultrasound machine. She lay flat, afraid now of what her doctor might find. She twisted her hands into fists until her recently manicured finger nails dug into her skin.

  In Frannie’s view, Dr Kanton was an alarmist. For the past few months she had been coming here regularly and the gynaecologist had doggedly scanned her belly every chance she got, as if she wanted to find something wrong. As a doctor she was thorough and exact, but rather too plain-speaking. From a doctor Frannie wanted reassurance, not someone who played on her worst fears.

  The bleeding was not extensive, but it clearly gave Dr Kanton the twitters. Her shoulders were so bony it was as if her white coat were stretched on wire. She never plucked her eyebrows and left her hair grey. As she did all the tests, she was ticking off a list on her fingers.

  ‘Urine is OK, ECG reads fine, but the placenta has had a, how you say it, Abbruch?’

  When she got deep into it, she talked in German, but the words were lost on Frannie. That was how the Germans always did it: even when they could speak English they preferred to make you feel small for not speaking perfect German.

  ‘Abbruch?’ Frannie said.

  Dr Kanton tried to explain in another way. ‘A tiny part has broken away from the plancenta,’ she said.

  Frannie frowned. ‘Does that mean the baby is in danger?’

  Bad question to ask. For Dr Kanton, babies were always in danger. Her face broke into a grimace. ‘It could be. A lot of women bleed after such a trauma. Your car accident may have done some damage.’ She looked at Frannie severely. ‘So now you must be extra careful. You could give birth earlier or even lose the baby. We are still some weeks before full term.’ Her eyes lingered on Frannie’s bump.

  ‘But driving can’t normally hurt the pregnancy, right?’ said Frannie.

  ‘No,’ conceded Doctor Kanton reluctantly. ‘But you never know when you need to perform an emergency stop like today and that is the danger. It would be best not to drive any more.’

  Frannie felt as if everything were about to go black. Her driving test was tomorrow. How could she function, with Kurt working such long hours and all his business trips, if she couldn’t even get to the local supermarket? She clenched her fingers together. Surely nothing could happen to her baby: wasn’t he protected by a lining of water in the womb?

  She was about to ask her doctor for some ballpark figure of the chances of the placenta getting worse but bit her lip. Despite her heavily pregnant state, Frannie took pride in her appearance. She washed her hair every day, as she had her whole adult life, and continued to put on a full face of make-up. Dr Kanton, with her mannishness and disdain for all feminine frivolity, presumably thought she was vain and self-obsessed because she worked hard to look good. Photos of Dr Kanton’s children were on display; she imagined the doctor had knitted and hand-carved toys out of wood when she had been pregnant.

  She had to take the test, otherwise she’d have to walk everywhere on foot with her baby in tow.

  She gave Heinrich a meaningful look and he nodded. He shuffled his feet and then spoke to Dr Kanton in a hard-sounding quick-fire German exchange. Thank God he was on her side now. He was evidently managing to persuade the doctor that he would see to it, personally, that Frannie would be safe during the test. She tried to stop the tears that squeezed out of the corner of her eyes.

  ‘I know this test is important, but you really must keep out of cars afterwards until the baby is born,’ said Dr Kanton, looking at the driving instructor pointedly.

  When Frannie thought of the lorry driver who had caused this, anger bubbled up in her veins. That bastard! But this was ridiculous; on her test she didn’t have to perform an emergency stop because of her pregnancy. In fact, they had never even practised one.

  On the way home, with her hand laid flat on her stomach, she tried to pluck up the courage to dial Kurt. He should be home by now. She desperately needed comfort, but he’d be angry with her; he was always scratchy these days. When he failed to answer, she hung up. Better to let Heinrich do all the explanations. She was too tired to think any more.

  ‘Annchen!’ Lars said, going up to her with a fake bonhomie. Even though he rarely drank, he took a glass of champagne from the table. The room sat ten comfortably. Plush leather sofas provided a discreet play area in what was intended to be a VIP room for passing sports stars and actresses. It was stylish, excessively so.

  A deep, royal-looking carpet softened the echoes of the room. Ornate glass shelves housed the most luxurious whiskies, cognacs and cigars the club had to offer. Lars had found it ideal on several occasions.

  ‘Lars,’ Anna drawled, in the affected style that very beautiful women often had. The minute she opened her mouth you could tell she was Polish; her bone structure was also characteristically bird-like. She was sitting in a nude chiffon dress, with spaghetti straps that gave him a fine view of her neck. She laughed, trying not to show her annoyance at seeing him.

  ‘Have you hidden away Hans again?’ she said.

  He laughed. Tried to disguise the fact that his hands were shaking.

  Anna had been annoying him for some time. She was a glamorous blonde who considered herself Hans Grans’s main squeeze. Lars did not like women who wore too much make-up. Anna was so artificial, there was nothing true about her any more. And she had no taste. She wore cheap earrings with a real diamond bracelet and necklace. You could give her a four-thousand-euro dress, and she’d wear it with stupid shoes.

  Although she had been irritating him about Hans, he didn’t think he could do anything to her. She aroused his jealousy, but not his desire. Unlike Hans, who found flattery from either sex satisfying, Lars was gay. Nothing about her could get him going.

  He didn’t kill because he hated people or wanted to do them harm. It was simple Lustmord. When he got horny, shit happened. It was the frenzy of the experience he wanted: to bite and kill. But he didn’t fuck women and he didn’t kill them. Hans had no right putting her in this room with him at all.

  All Lars could think was how small and child-like her hands were. She was a dainty creature, tiny, with barely-there breasts. If he put both hands around her neck he could have snapped it. He wanted very much not to have to kill her. He sighed. Hans was really taking the piss.

  Anna sat and laughed at him. Not with her mouth but with her kohl-lined eyes. She turned and went to get herself a cigarette from a box on the ornate shelves. From the back, Lars noticed that, with her hair up, she became androgynous. His tongue darted furtively over his lips. Type I. Female, but still the right type. Try to think about her ethereal skin. He closed his eyes. Was Hans watching on the CCTV?

  ‘Are we stuck in here, Lars-ey?’ she said over her shoulder, mocking as usual. ‘I don’t mean to be rude, but I am actually waiting for Hans to take me to dinner.’ She looked at him as if he was something under her stiletto. ‘Why are you here?’

  Even her hipbone pointed at him aggressively. She poked at a bowl of olives, wiggling the stick in annoyance. Her eyes were half-closed slits.

  The little madam had been laughing about him for weeks, thinking she was better than him when she did nothing but turn tricks for Ha
ns. She was trying to burrow into Hans’s skin; thought she was so beautiful she had a right to know everything. He wrinkled his nose in disgust. She was such a turn-off. He tried to imagine the intense masculinity of the truck, the throb of its machine roar. Had somehow to get into the zone.

  In two steps he was on her. He pushed her face down on to the wide sofa. She let out a shocked scream. He sat on her legs and made her lie prone, he wanted to avoid seeing her face. He ripped her dress off with one movement. Anna shouted and screamed and tried to push him off, but the arms that pinned her down might have been made of steel.

  Underneath her body was practically androgynous. He pushed her long blonde hair over her head so he could concentrate on the nape of her neck. If he ignored the obvious, she could be an adolescent boy, all slim and nimble. Her young flesh coloured as he fondled it. He playfully squeezed her neck.

  ‘Please, please don’t,’ she screamed. Her cries pierced the room. The more fiercely she struggled, the more right it felt to Lars. In his gay encounters he spent hours playing rough. His victims were usually exhausted from consensual play before he really started. If he just gazed at the back view of her naked body, perhaps he could convince himself he could get horny. He only ever killed in the throes of passion.

  ‘Shut up!’ Now her struggling was really annoying him. He couldn’t concentrate on his fantasies. It was taking all his effort just to keep her pushed down on the sofa. No, he was losing it. There was no tingle in his toes.

  It was hard pushing her down when she was struggling so violently. His arms were aching. He looked up into the cameras and jerked no with his head. If Hans wanted this done, he was going to have to get out here and do it himself.

  He threw her off the sofa.

  ‘You bastard!’ she screamed. Half-choked, she could do little more than mewl in fear.

  Within a minute Hans was there. He came in smoking as if joining a dinner party and immediately turned on Lars.

  ‘What kind of shit is going on here?’ he said, grabbing Lars by his collar. Anna whimpered in his direction. She thought Hans was there to rescue her, but he quickly turned on her and slapped her. His face was reddened; he was angry with both of them and didn’t want them to know it. Anna screamed harder. Her cute little world was seeping down her face in black streaks.

  Hans went to Lars. He smiled at his much older lover and put his tongue in Lars’s mouth. Lars instantly turned to putty in his hands.

  ‘Oh, Schatz,’ said Lars, his eyes rolling upwards in pure bliss.

  Anna started screaming even louder. Somehow this show of tenderness disturbed her more than the violence. Her eyes widened in shock as Hans picked up one of the huge leather sofa cushions and advanced menacingly towards her. Roughly he shoved it over her face. She kicked and screamed all the louder. The bits of words she uttered were savage. Pure terror gave her a vicious energy.

  ‘Fuck it, I don’t believe this!’ said Hans, his voice for once rough and hard. He didn’t normally get his hands dirty, and he tried to actually touch Anna as little as possible, using the cushion as a third party. When her struggles got more frantic he actually sat on her and used his legs to keep her flattened.

  ‘Get over here, will you?’ he snapped.

  Lars just sat smoking in the corner, not wanting any more part in it. His brain was not letting him register what he was seeing.

  Anna let out an agonized cry and then went quiet.

  Hans Grans got up gingerly, as if he’d sat in something that had stained his trousers. He put the cushion back neatly and smoothed it down. Anna was tipped callously on to the floor. Blood started to trickle from the nose. She must have broken it in the fall.

  Watching the slow trail of red ease out onto the floor changed everything for Lars. He let out a groan. Hans’s sharp eyes noticed everything, although he said and did nothing.

  ‘Over to you, then; she’s all yours. Can you drive her to the body farm when you’re finished?’ His face wore the look of a manager who had just taken care of some pressing task. He patted down his white suit trousers. Not a smudge on him. ‘The paperwork’s ready,’ he added in a normal voice as if he was just referring to a drinks order. Lars just looked at him, aghast. It was as if he was seeing him for the first time. Hans left the room, looking like he’d just stepped out of Vogue after a very satisfactory lunch and would just like a little Cognac to settle his stomach.

  Anna lay on the floor, dead to the world.

  Chapter

  Four

  As Heinrich was parking in the street, Frannie spotted Kurt’s car in the drive. She was so nervous about him finding out her news that she could barely swallow. She checked her phone. He hadn’t answered one text or email. Yesterday he’d been in a foul mood just because his football team had lost. She was beginning to think she didn’t really know him any more. He was always staying up late surfing on the net and getting lots of mysterious texts on his phone, but any time she sneaked a look it was always some guy from his ex-military service days.

  She stood outside the front door hesitantly. The bright blue paint of the door had worn away, and the flowers in the pot next to it were wilting. The other houses in the smart suburban street had over-attentive owners. Their house from the outside looked out of place. Each house was individually built with a large garden. Lawns you could hold magazine shoots on, with windows that glistened in the sunlight. But everyone else was too busy to enjoy a glass of wine. Kurt had once loved her carefree ways, but his mother and his friends were constantly belittling her efforts to keep everything neat. Ordnung. She prided herself on being spirited and creative. Who wanted to be a Stepford wife? She hadn’t gained two degrees to competitively keep house.

  It was Heinrich who finally rang the doorbell. There was a sound of something heavy being put down (Kurt must be doing his weight training). After a minute, Kurt stood there, his muscles protruding out of his tight sports clothes. His dark blond hair was tousled, as if someone had just run their hands through it. Her heart lurched as she saw him, still as handsome as the first day they had met. But that face that had once focused completely on getting her attention was now sullen. Whatever they’d once had, it was gone now.

  Kurt took a step back when he saw Frannie’s bloodstained dress. He stood there blinking. She shrank into herself. Couldn’t he show some emotion? As usual, she had no idea what he was thinking. They went inside into the living room. Heinrich looked distinctly nervous. Their lesson should have ended two hours ago. He started to explain what had happened in such quick German that Frannie couldn’t do more than get the gist of it. This must be the first time for Heinrich that a pregnant learner had come a cropper.

  She longed more than anything for Kurt to hold her and tell her everything would be fine. When he learned that part of her placenta had broken away, she saw the anger in his eyes turn to fear. He looked at her as if he just couldn’t believe it.

  Even though it had been his idea that she should learn to drive, still Kurt was furious that the baby’s safety had been compromised. He kept saying she shouldn’t drive under any circumstances, until she wanted to smack him. Heinrich tried to calm him down. Their voices could be heard all down the street; it was embarrassing. She pushed past them and ran to the loo; she couldn’t understand when they spoke so fast anyway.

  There was still a bit of blood, and she felt nauseous, but the baby was staying put, for now. She could hear the guttural ‘ge-ugh’ of the story being told in the past tense. One day she hoped she would be able to understand a hundred percent of a German conversation. Right now she had to be content with getting the gist of it. Every time she wrestled with the language she felt the familiar stab of failure. It was another one of those things that didn’t come naturally to her.

  But why had that mad lorry driver pursued her? He’d gone for her like a man possessed. It didn’t make sense.

  Kurt called her as soon as she came out of the bathroom. ‘Heinrich wants to call the police,’ he said. ‘He’s got
the number plate and they should be able to check his tachograph.’

  ‘His what?’ she said. All she wanted was to lie down and fall asleep, but Kurt would have none of it.

  ‘His tachograph. It shows how fast he was going. Lorry drivers are not allowed to go over eighty kilometres, so the police can check it and it’ll show that he was driving too fast. Heinrich will meet us at the police station.’

  Kurt went to find his shoes. It was typical of him that he was obsessing over details rather than engaging with her feelings. Why couldn’t he just hold her the way he used to? She sighed and went to her room to change out of her bloodstained clothes. She really felt that Kurt didn’t love her any more. His obsessive weight-training while she was pregnant made her feel physically more inadequate. What was she going to do? This was one of the thoughts she tried not to let herself dwell on. Was it living in this godforsaken country that had turned things bad, or was it the relationship itself?

  On the way to the police station, Kurt drove badly. When he suggested for the second time that she had somehow made the lorry driver angry, Frannie could have strangled him.

  ‘This driver did everything to provoke me,’ she said. ‘Ask Heinrich if you don’t believe me! He practically pushed me off the road.’

  His neck got redder. ‘You shouldn’t have let it get to the point where you had to learn to drive so late.’ He banged the wheel with one hand. ‘If you were properly organised, if you took the time to think ahead, you would have passed your test long ago, and now you won’t be able to,’ he said.

  ‘Huh?’ she said, pressing down her foot as if she was driving. ‘It was your idea that I get mobile – and how do you know I’m going to fail? I haven’t even taken the bloody test yet.’