Like a…
Emma had an inkling, but couldn’t put a finger on it. Her thoughts dissipated almost simultaneously with the beeping that stopped as abruptly as it had started.
‘What was that?’ she asked out loud, but Samson remained horizontal, not even raising his head from his fat paws, which was very unlike him and caused Emma to worry that she might have imagined the sound.
Am I suffering from aural hallucinations now too?
Emma shut her laptop, pushed her chair from the desk and stood up.
The parquet creaked beneath her feet, which is why she tiptoed her way to the stairs in her ballerina slippers. Leaning against the wooden banisters in the hallway she listened, but could hear nothing save for a soft whooshing in her ear, the tinnitus that everyone experiences when they focus too hard on their own hearing.
Emma switched off the motion detectors using the control panel by the front door.
Then she crept upstairs to the first floor, where there was the bedroom, a dressing room and a large bathroom.
She’d forgotten to turn on the light by the stairs, and up here (she was just two steps from the first-floor landing) the roller blinds were still down (sometimes when the migraine side effects of her psychotropic drugs set in she blocked out the light all day long), so it felt as if Emma were climbing into the darkness.
Bugger this, she’d go into the basement. At least there she could defend herself with the fire extinguisher that was hanging on the wall by the stairs.
‘Samson, come here, boy!’ she called out without turning around because she was suddenly afraid that someone might slip out of the black hole and come at her on the stairs. And then, as if Philipp had also installed a voice detector for her security, these words set the alarm off again.
Oh God!
Emma bit her bottom lip to stop herself from screaming.
It could, of course, be pure coincidence that she was hearing it again now. But there it was: the mysterious sound. And she wasn’t imagining it.
A high-pitched beeping, somewhat louder now because she had moved towards the source, which evidently wasn’t on the first floor, but higher up, below the roof. And the alarm reminded Emma of her incomplete thought from a few minutes ago, with a number of associations.
An alarm clock was the most harmless, but also the most unlikely, explanation, because up in the attic there was nothing but paint pots, pulled-up floorboards, a torn-down drywall and all manner of tools dotted about the place. But no clock! And even if there had been, why should it start ringing today, half a year after they’d abandoned their renovation?
No, there wasn’t an alarm clock in the nursery building site, which Emma secretly called BER after the capital’s airport which probably would never be finished either. That night her desire for children had been shorn along with her hair.
‘For the time being,’ Philipp had told her. ‘For good,’ her soul said.
But if it wasn’t an alarm clock, then it could only be a…
… mobile phone.
‘Samson, come on!’ Emma called out again, louder and more energetically. She was unsettled by the thought of a mobile ringing in the attic above her head. The inevitable conclusion that it must belong to somebody pushed Emma to the edge of panic.
Which she toppled over when the bathroom door slammed shut only a few metres ahead of her.
13
She ran. Without thinking, without making any rational decisions or even weighing up her options, because then she would have certainly hurried downstairs, back to Samson. To the exit.
Instead she leaped up the last couple of steps, crossed the narrow landing virtually blind, losing a slipper, yanked open her bedroom door and shut it again behind her. Emma locked the door with the simple key which – thank God – was on the inside. She grabbed a chair and wedged the backrest under the handle, as she’d seen in films…
… but does that make any sense?
No, nothing made sense here, it hadn’t for a long while. Ever since she’d been picked up off the ground by the bus stop outside Le Zen.
Without hair.
Without dignity.
Without reason.
Emma’s eyes slowly became accustomed to the darkness.
In the scant daylight that seeped through the slats of the roller blind she could only make out shapes. Shadows. Vague surfaces. The bed, the wardrobe, the heavy door.
Squatting down beside a chest of drawers, an heirloom from her grandmother where she kept her underwear, Emma fixed her gaze on the door handle, the only reflective object in the room.
What her eyes had forfeited in vision, her ears had evidently made up in hearing. Besides the fitful noises of her own breathing, which was going far too fast, and the rustling of her dressing gown rising and falling over her pumping torso, dull thuds were sounding in the background.
Footsteps.
Heavy footsteps.
Coming up the stairs.
Emma did the worst thing she possibly could.
She screamed.
A high-pitched, piercing scream. She heard her own mortal fear wresting from her throat. Despite the fact that she was only drawing attention to herself, she couldn’t stop.
Sinking to her knees, Emma pressed her hand to her mouth, bit her knuckles, whimpered and despised herself for such weakness.
How proud she used to be of her ability to keep her feelings under control, even in the most emotional situations. For example when the jealous borderliner who she was referring to a colleague punched her goodbye in the face. Or when an eleven-year-old patient died of a brain tumour and she’d held her mother’s hand in the clinic until it was over. She’d always managed to put off her collapse till she was home alone, where, at a time and manner of her own choosing, she could bawl her anger or grief into a pillow pressed onto her face. But this form of self-control was history now and she hated herself for it.
I’m a wreck.
A screaming, howling misery guts who starts crying every time she sees an advertisement with a baby in it. Who thinks of the Hairdresser every time she meets a man.
And who anticipates certain death when the handle is being shaken on the other side of the door.
The last thing she saw was the door trembling from the hammering it was getting. Then Emma closed her eyes, tried pulling herself up on the chest of drawers, but slipped feebly like a drunkard unable to keep her balance.
Howling, she sank to the floorboards again, tasted her tears, smelled the sweat dripping from her eyebrows (why didn’t he shave those off too?) and couldn’t help thinking of the roller blind, which I didn’t open this morning, stupid cow. Now there wasn’t enough time to pull the heavy thing up. And jump.
It wasn’t so far from the first floor, especially with all that snow on the ground in the garden.
Maybe I could have done it…
Her screams and thoughts broke off when the door splintered and at once a cold draught cooled her tear-stained face.
Emma could hear panting. Footsteps. Shouting. Not coming from herself. But from the intruder.
Male shouting.
Two hands yanked away her arms which she’d wrapped over her head in protection, crouched like a little child waiting to be punished.
No, more like a woman waiting for death.
Finally she heard her name.
Emma.
Being yelled again and again by a voice, the last voice she’d been expecting in what were likely to be her last few seconds without pain.
Then the blow came. Straight to the face.
Her cheek burned as if it had been stung by a jellyfish and her tears bit open her eyelids from the inside. Through the blur she could see that she had two intruders to deal with.
The two men were standing close beside one another. Despite the meagre light and veil before her eyes she recognised both faces.
Which was hardly surprising.
She was married to one of them.
14
Philipp was no dream husband, or at least not by the apparent standard of the average woman’s dreams. He wasn’t a shining prince who called three times a day just to say ‘I love you’ before stopping on the way home at a florist’s, jeweller’s or lingerie boutique to pick up a small token to surprise his beloved, every day till their golden wedding anniversary and beyond. He wasn’t a husband who never argued, never glanced at other women, was always kind to his mother and loved nothing better than to cook for her friends.
He was, however, a reliable partner by her side.
Someone who voiced his opinions, a man with a mind of his own, which she found more important than being helped into her coat.
He gave her security and trust. In spite of all the difficulties that had marked the start of their relationship.
It had taken him months to disentangle himself from his ex, and he ended up two-timing Emma with ‘Kilian’ for weeks.
That wasn’t his ex-girlfriend’s real name, of course, but at the time Philipp had stored Franziska’s number on his mobile under the name of a football chum, so that Emma wouldn’t get suspicious if there was another call or text message. When she by chance discovered the truth, they had their first major row, which almost brought an end to their relationship. Finally, however, she believed Philipp that the ploy hadn’t been an attempt to keep something going with his ex. Because it wasn’t possible just to change his work number, Philipp couldn’t prevent Franziska’s wine-fuelled, sometimes hysterical calls. What he’d been trying to do was at least to protect Emma from unnecessary hurt, and himself from unnecessary arguments. In vain.
In the end the problem solved itself: Franziska found a new boyfriend and moved with him to Leipzig. There were no more calls from ‘Kilian’.
Otherwise he possessed the usual male quirks. Philipp enjoyed staying out late with friends without sending her a text to tell her they were moving on to yet another pub. He snored, flooded the bathroom and put his elbows on the table when they were eating. Once he forgot their wedding anniversary and, in a fit of rage, hurled a full cup of coffee at the wall (the stain was still visible), but he’d never, ever hit her.
But Emma had never given him such a compelling reason to do so before.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, a few minutes later. He’d helped her downstairs into the kitchen, where she’d sat at their square wooden table. In the past they loved having breakfast there at the weekends because it offered such a pretty view of the garden. The neighbouring one was totally overgrown, giving the impression that you were gazing into a forest.
Emma nodded and tried to say, ‘It’s okay,’ but her voice sank back down into her throat. She was clutching a bulbous cup of coffee, but wouldn’t take a sip. Philipp was leaning against the work surface by the sink. Keeping his distance.
Not because he wanted to, but because he knew this was what she needed right at the moment. For a few minutes at least, until the voice of terror in her head was screaming not quite so loudly.
‘Jesus, I’m really sorry,’ Philipp said, grinding his teeth and staring at his hands as if unable to comprehend what he’d done.
‘No.’ Emma shook her head, pleased to have found her voice again, even if it emerged from her mouth as little more than a croak. ‘What you did was absolutely right.’ The slap that was still burning her cheek had smothered the flames of panic. It was only afterwards that she’d stopped screaming and calmed down again.
‘I was completely off my rocker,’ she admitted, while thinking: So that’s how my patients feel when they confide in me.
Do they also realise how absurd their behaviour is in hindsight?
Emma had thought a stranger had slammed the bathroom door, but Philipp’s sudden return explained everything.
Having forgotten the papers for his lecture in the study, he’d turned off the motorway and headed back immediately. He’d even called Emma to let her know, but the call had gone straight to voicemail when she was lying unconscious in the living room.
‘I came straight upstairs when I heard you screaming.’
Her husband looked as if he’d aged several years, and Emma was worried that this wasn’t just an effect of the pendant light. His temples appeared grey, his hair slightly thinner and his brow furrowed. All this, she suspected, was less a result of his forty years than what had completely changed half a year ago: their life.
Emma wanted to stand up, put her hand out to Philipp, stroke his chin – hastily shaven early this morning – and say, ‘Don’t worry, everything’s fine now. Let’s go to Tegel and take the first plane to somewhere we’ve never been before. It’s just got to be far away. Let’s leave fate behind us.’
But she couldn’t. Emma wouldn’t make it to the front door. Christ, she couldn’t even move the kitchen stool. So all she said was, ‘I thought somebody had broken in.’
‘Who?’
‘No idea. Somebody.’
Philipp gave a sad sigh, like a young boy who’s been hoping that the toy he’s carefully mended will finally work again, only to discover when he tries it out that it’s still broken.
‘There’s nobody here, Emma. The bathroom door slammed when I opened up downstairs. You know how draughty it gets here.’
She nodded, but with a grimace. ‘That doesn’t explain the ringing.’
‘What sort of ringing?’
Emma turned to the voice behind her. Jorgo Kapsalos, Philipp’s best friend and partner at the Federal Criminal Police Office, was standing in the kitchen doorway. He was the second man she’d seen in the bedroom.
This morning when he’d come to pick Philipp up, Jorgo had stayed in the car. Now he’d come in and was gazing at her as he always did when they met: wistfully and with subliminal hope.
Philipp overlooked his partner’s secret looks, or misinterpreted them, but Emma guessed what was going on in Jorgo’s mind when he eyed her so melancholically. If Emma sometimes used Konrad to stir Philipp’s jealousy, she’d never abuse Jorgo’s feelings for such a purpose. For unlike the defence lawyer, her husband’s partner was anything but gay. The poor guy was hopelessly in love with her, something Emma had known even before her wedding day when a totally drunk Jorgo slurred into her ear as they danced that she’d married the wrong man, for heaven’s sake!
‘What sort of a ringing?’ he repeated.
‘No idea. An alarm clock or a mobile phone. I think it was coming from the attic.’
She hadn’t heard anything since the two men had broken down the bedroom door and rushed in to her.
‘Would you mind checking the rooms?’ Philipp asked his partner.
‘No, please don’t!’ In vain Emma racked her brain for words to explain that she’d been through all this once before.
Once before she’d searched a room and convinced herself that she was alone, only to be raped afterwards. Of course it was totally irrational and illogical, but Emma was worried that another search would summon the evil back and the horror would repeat itself. As if there were a times table of evil. An equation with an unknown by the name of ‘danger’ and a foregone conclusion: ‘pain’.
Emma knew better than anyone else that this reasoning was pathological. Which is also why she didn’t verbalise it to the two psychologically stable men, but just said, ‘You’ve got to go. I’ve detained you long enough.’
‘Don’t be silly,’ Jorgo said with a dismissive wave of the hand. ‘It’s not a problem.’ He was incredibly well built, a compact, muscular man you’d be very glad to have at your side on a dark underground platform when a horde of drunks were coming your way. ‘We can miss the first seminar. It’s not that important anyway.’
Philipp nodded. ‘My lecture’s not indispensable either. Maybe it would be best if you went without me, Jorgo.’
‘If you say so.’ Jorgo shrugged, looking not particularly pleased. Emma guessed why. He would rather stay alone with her. Her husband’s best friend had sent her several emails offering her his help in the wake of her great misfortune. She’d
deleted them all, the last few without even reading them.
‘Yes, I think it’s better if I stay here.’ Philipp nodded once more. ‘You can see how distraught she is.’
He pointed to Emma and spoke as if she weren’t in the room. Another of his non-dream-husband habits. ‘I can’t leave her here alone.’
‘Of course you can. It’s not a problem,’ Emma protested, even though ‘It’s not a problem’ expressed roughly the opposite of what she thought.
Philipp went over to her and took her hand. ‘Emma, Emma, what was it that upset you so much today?’
Good question.
The advertisement for the electric razor? Her fainting?
Salim’s farewell? The photo of the Hairdresser in the lift?
Or… wait, no…
‘What sort of a package?’ she heard Philipp say, realising that she’d thought out loud for the second time this morning.
‘The food crate in the hall?’ he asked.
‘No, I’m sorry, I haven’t unpacked it yet.’
The fact that she’d almost forgotten to tell her husband about the strange package on her desk made her aware of just how all over the place she was. Deep inside she sensed that she was overlooking something different, something crucial, but she couldn’t work out what for the moment. And the package was probably far more important.
‘Salim asked me to look after something for our neighbour.’
‘And?’ Jorgo and Philipp chorused in unison.
‘But I’ve never heard the name before,’ Emma added.
Bloody hell, what’s he called again? In her distress, Emma had actually forgotten, but then recalled the name. ‘Do you know an A. Palandt?’
Philipp shook his head.
‘There you go. Nor do I.’
‘Maybe he’s new to the area?’ Jorgo suggested.
‘We would know,’ Emma said, almost truculently.
‘And this is what worked you up?’ Philipp squeezed her hand more tightly. ‘A package for a neighbour?’
‘An unknown neighbour. Darling, I know I overreact…’
She ignored Philipp’s slight sigh.
The Package Page 7