From the ground the snow on top of the mountain looked like a solid white cap. In reality it was patchy, grass and rocks breaking through the dull grey ice. He took the path leading down to the restaurant, realising that if he climbed higher the cloud would be denser, giving him even less to look at, and he would feel cheated, coming all this way up and unable to enjoy the view across Kitzbühel and beyond.
He turned to look back at the cable-car station. Niederman and his friends could just be seen disappearing into the mist, heading in the opposite direction; the station itself was nothing more than a dark rectangular shape, blurred and distorted at the edges.
The fact that the others were going a different way pleased him enormously. Solitude was something he valued above almost anything else. After years of always having to be at another’s beck and call, to suddenly be alone and responsible solely for oneself was a wonderful feeling. Niederman had summed it up nicely. Death could be so very liberating.
He wondered what to make of Dieter Niederman. A rather intense individual – one who did not mind telling a complete stranger his life story. There were people like that, as barmen across the globe would attest, but Towner wondered why he had been chosen to be the recipient of Niederman’s account of his love life.
The feeling that there was some kind of agenda between them increased as he walked in the near-silence of the mountain. He felt as if he’d been sought out deliberately, as if the two of them sharing the cable car alone had been some carefully planned out exercise – although commonsense told him it was unlikely. Nevertheless, as he walked, he began to feel uneasy about the encounter, and he struggled to control his rising paranoia.
The path ahead of him was clear. To his right was a field, to his left a thin grass verge, beyond which was a sheer drop. There was a barrier of sorts made from thin wire, but nothing substantial. There was a sound to his right and with a gasp he turned to see something looming out of the cloud towards him, something large and threatening – a grey shape more solid than the grey mist that surrounded it.
He backed away from the approaching shape, and took a step closer to the edge.
There was a gust of wind and the mist swirled and parted to reveal a brown, bovine head; a cow, staring at him from the other side of a fence. As the mist parted more he could see that there was a small herd of them in the field, and as they grazed he heard the dull clanging of their brass bells, carried on a wind that was doing its best to disperse the cloud.
He remembered from the guidebook that cows were kept up here, and thought how preposterous the idea was, but the evidence was there for him to see. The cow stood at the fence and watched him incuriously as he passed, gazing at him dolefully through large brown eyes. He reached out to stroke it but it shied away, turning and trotting back to the herd. Towner shrugged and carried on, keeping close to the right side of the path, well away from the drop.
Sometimes the urge is very strong to step out into space. Niederman’s words flashed through his mind as he continued along the path. He’d denied it at the time, but the truth was he had contemplated suicide on more than one occasion. During the bleak times with Caroline the urge to take a one-way journey away from his misery was very strong. He had considered the many ways it was possible to kill oneself, discounting the more painful and bizarre ways very early on. Eventually he had settled on a hosepipe connected to the exhaust of his car, or pills washed down with alcohol. Painless methods, or so he’d read. The question that always came back to nag him was, how did they know it was painless?
The thought of sitting in a car choking on noxious fumes seemed terrifying, and he could easily imagine himself writhing on a bed with severe cramping pains in his stomach as the pills slowly poisoned him. And even when despair got the better of him and his misery seemed complete, those were the images that always made him pull back from the brink. Essentially he knew he was a coward; quick to see himself making the grand gesture, but lacking the courage to go through with it.
It was those images and thoughts, and the solace he sought in other ways, that enabled him to outlive his wife. How glad he was now. He was still a relatively young man, with many years of life ahead of him. In some ways he felt he was only now embarking of the adventure known as life.
As he walked on he began to pant slightly: the air was much thinner up here on the mountain. Gradually the cloud thinned and he began to get glimpses of the view across the town, and for the first time he got a complete impression of how high up he actually was. Looking down at Kitzbühel was like looking at a child’s toy, albeit a very elaborate one. A town comprising of miniature houses and matchbox cars.
He rounded a bend and came to a plateau on the mountainside. Here was the restaurant he had seen from his hotel room’s balcony – much larger than he’d imagined it. There was also a road leading from it, snaking down the side of the mountain. There were no cars, just two cyclists, legs straining, their faces red with effort, pedalling slowly up the road towards the restaurant. Rather them than me, he thought.
The restaurant was brightly lit and modern in design. Marble-topped tables surrounded by leather and chrome chairs; a long stainless steel counter containing appetising plates of salad and delicious-looking cakes. He ordered a hot chocolate, mit sahne, with cream, paid the cashier then took the meal on a tray outside to the tables and chairs on the large wooden-railed veranda.
It was not particularly warm, but he was dressed for the outdoors and the slight breeze that was blowing cooled him after his fairly strenuous walk. He sipped his chocolate and took a forkful of strudel into his mouth, savouring the light texture of the pastry and the delicate flavours of the apples, sultanas and cinnamon that complimented each other perfectly. He gazed across the landscape and the feeling of excitement about his life to come, blossomed into one of euphoria. ‘This is the life,’ he said quietly to himself. ‘This is the life, Ray. You are one lucky…’ His attention was caught by the telescope that stood on a sturdy metal frame at the far end of the veranda, and he remembered the sun-flash he’d seen from the balcony of his room.
He finished his strudel, drained the thick chocolate dregs from his cup and walked over to it, feeling in his pocket for some change. He found a Euro and dropped it into the slot. The shutter opened with a metallic click and he looked through.
The magnification was reasonable. He focused on the main street; swung round to take a look at the lake, known to locals as the Schwarsee, then back to the town. In Kitzbühel he watched the locals and the tourists going about their business; groups clustered around tables outside the Konditorei; visitors taking a ride in a horse-drawn carriage, talking animatedly to each other and pointing at the local beauty spots. Out of curiosity he moved the telescope to the left until he found the Alpenblum, his hotel. Then, once he’d worked out the geography, found his room.
The first thing he noticed was that the balcony doors were open; yet he was sure he’d closed them before he left the room earlier. Perhaps the maid was servicing the room. He focussed on the double doors, and looked past them, through into the shadowed interior. He could see a table and chair, certainly not where he had left them. There was a bottle on the table. From the square shape of it he guessed it was a bottle of Johnny Walker whisky. Spread across the table were clusters of the shiny white beetles that had plagued his visit so far. He squinted through the telescope’s lens, trying to get a clearer view. Squinting helped a little. Beside the Johnny Walker bottle was a glass and another, smaller bottle – brown glass, white capped. And the small white objects on the table were not beetles at all, but clusters of pills; hard white capsules about half an inch long.
A pair of legs came into view just beyond the table and he raised the telescope to see who had entered the room. The telescope’s shutter closed with a metallic finality as the money ran out.
‘Damn!’ he said, then looked around to see if anyone had heard him. The veranda was all but deserted. A young couple sat on the side furthest away from him, an
d they seemed only to have eyes for each other, oblivious to anything else that might be happening around them.
He scrabbled in his pocket for another coin and fed it into the slot, but the view he got from the telescope this time was quite different.
In the town of Kitzbühel it was snowing. Not only was it snowing but had been snowing for some considerable time; days, perhaps weeks. The snow lay thick on the street, high drifts pushing up against the shop-fronts. From the gutters of the snow-capped buildings, icicles hung like glass spears, some more than a yard long. On the streets the people thronged, some carrying skis, all of them wrapped up tightly against the blizzard.
Towner recoiled from the telescope and stared down at the town. Above Kitzbühel the sky was a glorious blue and virtually cloudless. The roads were dry and clear. There was not a trace of snow.
He looked back through the telescope and drew in his breath sharply. He was again looking at a snowscape. He swung the telescope towards his hotel room and gasped as he saw Caroline standing on the balcony. She was dressed in a thick Fairisle sweater and her hair, grey and stringy when he’d last seen her, now jet-black and lustrous, was swept elegantly away from her face. As she turned her head to speak to someone in the room, he saw the silver clip securing her hair. He recognised it. He’d bought it for her on their first wedding anniversary.
He kept watching, like a man in a trance, as another figure emerged onto the balcony. With growing disbelief Raymond Towner watched himself step out onto the balcony. The hair was longer than it was now and there was the freshness of youth about the face. He realized he was looking at a younger version of himself.
It was obvious from their body language and the angry expressions on their faces that they were having a furious argument. Towner watched himself reach out and take Caroline by the throat. He could almost feel his fingers digging into the flesh of her neck, searching out her windpipe to crush it.
Seconds later Dieter Niederman stepped out onto the balcony, forcing himself between them. He pulled Caroline close and at the same time swung his fist at the younger Towner’s head, but before the blow could land, the telescope’s shutter closed with a metallic click.
Towner cried out in frustration and fear, and staggered away from the telescope, flopping down into the nearest chair. His hands were shaking and his breath was coming in short gasps.
A glass of water was placed on the table beside him and he looked up to see the young man from the table opposite standing over him, concern on his face. He said something in German.
Towner shook his head. ‘No understand. English.’
The young man nodded and said haltingly, ‘Are...you... okay?’
‘Yes, fine. Thank you,’ Towner said, but the glass shook as he put it to his lips and sipped the water. ‘Thank you,’ he said again and went back to the telescope. He felt in his pockets for more change but came up empty.
The young man had returned to his girlfriend and they were watching him curiously.
‘Do you have any change?’ Towner asked them. ‘Coins, I need coins.’
The young couple looked at him blankly. Towner went across and took the young man by the arm, dragging him over to the telescope. He pointed to the coin slot. ‘Coins,’ he repeated. He pulled a crumpled five Euro note out of his pocket and waved it under the young man’s nose. ‘Change? Coins?’
Finally the young man nodded his understanding, and from a small pouch on the side of his waterproof jacket, produced a handful of coins. Towner scooped up half a dozen and replaced them with note, ignoring the young man’s protest that he had given him too much.
He dropped another coin into the slot and peered once more through the telescope.
The young man shrugged and shook his head, turning to his girlfriend who was gathering up their bags ready for departure. He pointed to his temple and jerked his thumb back in the direction of Towner. The girl laughed.
The scene that presented itself to Towner this time was very different. The snow had gone and bright sunlight bathed the balcony of the hotel room. Caroline and Niederman stood there in light summer clothes, sipping red wine from large crystal glasses. Caroline looked very different. Her face was made up and her hair was cut into a chic crop – Towner always hated short hair and insisted she keep it long, below her shoulders. They were laughing and entwined, with their arms around each other. They were looking up at the mountain, looking directly at him, and laughing. Laughing at him.
Confusion and fear gave way to anger and he pushed himself away from the telescope.
He ran back to the cable-car station, past the field of cows, not caring that one slip on the pebble-strewn path might send him plummeting over the edge. Within minutes he was engulfed in cloud again and he checked his speed, slowing to a trot. Eventually the station loomed up in the distance.
He ran up the stairs and onto the loading platform. There was a gondola waiting, but no sign of the operator. Towner opened the door and climbed inside. Behind him the door slammed and he turned and looked out of the small car’s window to see Dieter Niederman locking the door. The blond man smiled at Towner. ‘Bon Voyage, Herr Towner,’ he said, put his walking boot against the side of the car and pushed it back onto the main cable.
The gondola lurched and swung out through the station door, and was still swinging as it made its descent. Towner felt sick, though whether from the swinging car or from the events of the past thirty minutes he could not be sure.
The descent was agonisingly slow. At one point the car stopped completely and hung in space, rocking backwards and forwards as the wind took it. Towner suspected sabotage, expecting that any moment the cable would snap, sending him hurtling down to the trees below. Then, with a sickening lurch the cable started to move again and the descent continued.
When the gondola reached the base station Towner climbed quickly out of the car and sprinted back through the town to the hotel. As he ran he drew curious looks from the people he passed, and, as he barged through a group of tourists taking photographs of a monument in the centre of the town square, there were a few angry shouts, and his jacket was grabbed from behind. He spun round to find himself face to face with an elderly man in a Tyrolean hat. The man said something to him. Towner watched the lips move but heard nothing. He wrenched his jacket away and continued to run.
The Alpenblum Hotel had a revolving glass door. Towner’s entrance left it spinning. He ran to the lift, at the same time searching for his room key. Then he remembered he’d handed it in at reception before he left this morning. He ran back to the desk and rang the bell impatiently. A young man emerged from a room behind the desk and stared at him suspiciously. ‘Ja?’
‘Room 309,’ Towner said breathlessly. ‘The key? Room 309? Bitte.’
The young man looked unimpressed. ‘Name…please.’
‘Towner. It’s Towner…Room 309.’
The receptionist turned to study the pigeonholes on the wall behind him. ‘I think you are mistaken, Herr Towner. That room is currently occupied.’ He opened the register and began to scan through the names.
‘But you must have my key,’ Towner said frantically. ‘Room 309…’
The young man raised a hand to quieten him. ‘I say again, room 309 is occupied, and unless your name is Niederman, then you have the wrong room.’
Niederman! That man again. He was taking over his life.
A door opened at the far end of the reception area and music spilled out, together with the sound of a party. Towner was instantly transported back into his dream. He wandered across tiled floor and approached the door. Inside the room was filled with people; people dancing, people drinking, people laughing.
‘Excuse me, sir.’ The young man came out from behind the desk and walked purposefully across to where Towner stood. ‘You are not allowed in there. It is a private party.’
Through the crowd Towner saw what he knew he was going to see. In the centre of floor was Caroline, dancing. Her partner was Dieter Niederman.
Towner made to move forward but the receptionist grabbed his arm. Towner spun round and pushed the young man in the chest, sending him tumbling backwards.
As he entered the room the crowd by the doorway parted and Towner approached the dancing couple. He reached out for Caroline’s arm, half-expecting that his hand would pass straight through her and prove to him that she was nothing but a figment of his fevered imagination. But as his fingers closed around the soft flesh of her forearm he realised that she was indeed real, horribly real.
The music stopped and Caroline turned to face him.
She was as beautiful now as when they had first met, before the life-draining disease robbed her of her looks and turned her hair prematurely grey. But her eyes were cold and hard and regarded him with unconcealed contempt.
‘Caroline?’ Towner said.
‘Who did you expect?’ Even her voice sounded younger.
‘But you’re…’
‘Don’t say it, Raymond. Don’t even think it.’
Towner was aware that the music had stopped and all the eyes in the room were turning to stare. Still holding on to her arm he propelled Caroline to the doorway, away from the prying eyes and ears.
As he let go of her arm he noticed the large diamond ring on her wedding finger. He made a grab for her hand but she evaded him.
‘And that?’ he said. ‘What’s the meaning of that?’
‘Dieter and I. We’re to be married.’
‘Married? But you’re married to me.’
She looked at him steadily. ‘Poor Raymond. You never did have much of an imagination, did you? This is my world, Raymond. My world. In this world I’m well, not racked with pain and sickness. In this world, I’m young again, I’m in love again.’
‘In love?’
‘Yes, with a fine man; a man who won’t betray me with every cheap whore who winks at him.’
The colour drained from Towner’s face.
‘You looked shocked. You really thought you’d kept them a secret? Didn’t you think I could smell them on your clothes…on you?’
Incantations Page 14