Marc’s name had been called before he could finish the article. He had never regretted not knowing how a story ended as much as he did at this moment.
‘Do you know who I am?’ That was what he really wanted to ask, but Benny got in first.
‘This is a bad time, Marc.’
The use of his name, the familiar tone of voice reserved for people one doesn’t have to make an effort for, and the twitch of the eyebrows – a mannerism with which they’d always greeted each other in the past – all these helped to banish Marc’s direst fears. He wasn’t an anonymous stranger after all.
‘You know who I am,’ he blurted out in relief, heedless of how absurd this must sound. Benny seemed even more exhausted than Marc himself, although he looked to be in better shape physically. He had filled out, like an athlete whose training has improved his posture. But for all that, he was looking drained – wrapped in an air of melancholy fatigue that had nothing in common with the warm, dreamy look of someone roused from sleep in the middle of the night. His shoulders seemed bowed beneath an invisible burden that rendered it impossible for him to take a step towards his brother.
‘I need your help,’ said Marc.
‘I can’t.’
Although he’d anticipated this reply, it surprised him nonetheless. On the one hand, it was curt and dismissive. On the other, Benny’s tone was far milder than he’d expected. Marc was responsible for his enforced confinement in a psychiatric hospital, after all, yet there was nothing hostile about his younger brother’s manner – indeed, he seemed in urgent need of help himself.
‘I’m afraid you’ll have to go. . .’ Benny stopped short. Somewhere on the stairs, a board had creaked as loudly as if someone had crushed a nutshell underfoot.
Benny froze.
Marc was about to explain that he hadn’t come alone, but Benny motioned him to be silent. There was another creak, and although it sounded this time like the creak of a decrepit beam in an old building, Marc sensed that his brother was becoming more nervous still.
‘Were you followed?’ Benny asked in a whisper.
‘Not exactly.’
At that moment the front door swung open and Benny whipped something out of his jacket pocket – something Marc had never seen him holding before: a cocked automatic pistol.
40
Two minutes later, after Emma had narrowly escaped being shot because she hadn’t wanted to wait outside the door any longer, and after all three had calmed down a little, they were standing in the living room beside a long, handcrafted oak dining table. The fruit bowl on it was piled high with bananas, apples and grapes. Marc could detect no dust or glass rings on the freshly polished surface. Leana, the psychiatric nurse, had been telling the truth: Benny really had turned over a new leaf. His kid brother, who had been permanently broke and given to sleeping amid a clutter of pizza boxes and empty cans of Red Bull, seemed to have adopted a vitamin-rich diet and acquired a cleaning woman. Or a girlfriend, which was even more inconceivable. The only reminder of his former lifestyle was the stale air pervading his top-floor flat. It harboured a curious, rather cloying smell suggestive of windows long unopened or garbage that urgently needed taking outside.
Benny, who had pocketed the pistol, glanced nervously at his watch. ‘What do you want?’ he asked uncertainly, blinking as if someone had thrown sand in his eyes. The lids were puffy and he seemed totally stressed.
‘I need some information, Benny.’
‘What sort of information?’
‘You’ve got to check a licence-plate number for me.’
Benny blew out his lips incredulously and gave a forced laugh.
‘In the middle of the night? Are you crazy?’
Marc nodded. ‘Believe it or not, that’s precisely why I’m here: to find out if I am.’
He helped himself to an apple. Although he hadn’t eaten all day, he didn’t feel hungry in the least and put it back.
‘Well. . .’ Benny glanced at the window. ‘If you want my honest opinion, your fat girlfriend over there certainly has a screw loose.’
Emma had left them and gone over to the living-room window, where she was feeling the heavy linen curtain with one hand as if checking the quality of the material. The other hand was holding her mobile, into which she was whispering. The brothers could only catch snatches of what she was saying.
‘I’m now. . . Benjamin Lucas’s flat. . . near Kollwitz. . . fifth floor. . .’
‘What on earth is she doing?’
‘Leaving a message on her mobile.’
‘Huh?’
‘Forget it. It isn’t important.’
Marc prefaced his summary of the previous few hours by asking if Benny had heard about the car accident. Benny’s only response was an indifferent shrug. His resentment showed through for the first time, although he seemed to find it an effort to inject some indignation into his voice. ‘I’m sorry. As you’re probably aware, I was in a psychiatric hospital until recently. You don’t get to hear much about the outside world in there.’
He pulled up a chair. His reproachful undertone had gone the next time he spoke. ‘Look, I’m really sorry about Sandra, but I knew nothing about her death – I didn’t even know she was pregnant. It must be hell for you, Marc, but right now I’ve got other worries, honestly.’
‘Lovely,’ they heard Emma mutter to herself, and turned to look.
She had left the window and was examining an unframed canvas hanging just above the leather sofa.
‘I’d like to be there too.’ She went closer and bent over with her hands clasped behind her back like someone in a gallery trying to decipher an artist’s signature.
I’d like to be there too? Where?
The picture was a big white expanse with isolated patches of beige, coarse-grained canvas showing through it. From a distance it looked as if it had been sprayed with frothy milk.
‘Let me give you a brief account of all that’s happened to me today,’ Marc began, only to be interrupted once more.
‘Did you paint this?’ Emma asked.
To his boundless surprise, those few words of hers seemed to monopolize his brother’s attention. Benny went over to her. ‘Yes,’ he said, nodding wearily.
Yes? Marc was familiar with his brother’s passion for art. In the old days, Benny had even ventured to produce some roughs for the sleeve of their demo CD, though they’d had been far less abstract than this.
‘It’s wonderful. That house. . .’ Emma indicated the pallid expanse. ‘The deserted forest. . .’
House? Forest? thought Marc. He went over and peered at it. True, there seemed to be something indistinct in the background. The picture was on two planes, but he couldn’t make out a building of any kind. An ice-bound, snowy wasteland or a cloudscape at most, and even then with a lot of imagination.
‘Benny,’ Marc said, trying to pick up the thread again, ‘will you listen a minute?’
Although his brother nodded, he seemed to be as wholly engrossed in the painting as Emma. Marc launched into his account of the traumatic experiences he’d undergone in the last few hours, uncertain whether anyone in the room was listening to him. He was all the more surprised when Benny, having torn himself away from his handiwork, produced a complete and accurate summary of what he’d been told.
‘Well, if I’ve understood you correctly, it’s like this: having got me committed to that loony bin, you turn up here and announce that Sandra and her baby have died in a car crash. Someone has wiped your memory of the event and your wife has resurrected herself, the only evidence of that being a fuzzy photograph of a blonde sitting in a yellow Volvo. And now you need the address that matches the licence plate, right?’
Marc nodded. ‘B – Q 1371.’
Benny was about to go on when they heard a rhythmical humming sound that vaguely reminded Marc of his doorbell. Benny took his mobile from his jeans pocket, checked the incoming text message and grimaced as if he’d just extracted a filling with some chewing gum.
‘What is it?’
Puzzled, Marc watched his brother go over to a TV cabinet. He opened it and took out a brand-new, half-open sports bag. Marc wasn’t sure, but he thought he glimpsed a wad of banknotes before Benny zipped it up.
‘Who’s texting you at this time of night?
Benny stared at him blankly and put the bag on his shoulder. ‘We have to go,’ he said. He stopped short. ‘Where’s she gone?’
Marc didn’t know what he meant for a moment. Then he, too, saw that Emma wasn’t standing in front of the picture any more.
She wasn’t in the room at all.
‘No idea,’ he said, glancing at the living-room door.
Hadn’t it been ajar just now?
He knew the answer even before Emma started screaming outside in the passage.
41
‘We’ve got to get out of here!’
Panic-stricken, Emma was tugging at the front door, which Benny had locked before they went into the living room. Something must have scared her so much she hadn’t even noticed the key in the deadlock with the massive bolt running right across the door.
‘What’s the matter?’ Marc demanded.
‘Let me out!’ she cried shrilly, tears trickling down her red-veined cheeks. She kicked the door with each foot in turn.
‘Hey, take it easy,’ said Marc, but when he touched her shoulder she swung round with unexpected violence and dealt his jaw an inadvertent karate chop with the heel of her hand.
‘What’s the matter, for Christ’s sake?’ He was now shouting as loudly as Emma, who appeared to have choked on her own saliva, because she started coughing violently.
‘She’s. . .’ she gasped between two paroxysms ‘. . .dead.’
She’s dead?
‘Who’s dead? What’s she talking about?’
Marc looked at Benny, who was standing in the passage a couple of metres behind him, roughly on a level with the bathroom door. Benny just shrugged, so he read-dressed himself to Emma, who was being shaken by another fit of coughing. Her breath started to rattle in her throat. He tried to open her quilted jacket but couldn’t because she had slid to the floor with her back against the wall and was cowering beside the door like a beaten dog.
‘Don’t touch me,’ she whimpered, fending off imaginary blows with both hands, and started to hyperventilate.
‘Dead. . .’ she repeated, gasping like a drowning woman who’d surfaced in the nick of time. Although her massive bosom heaved at every breath, her oxygen intake seemed to be steadily diminishing. Eventually, after a last, desperate gasp, her eyes rolled upwards and she passed out.
‘Jesus,’ said Benny, ‘she belongs in a funny farm.’
‘That’s where she’s come from.’ Marc bent down and checked Emma’s pulse, though her double chin made it hard to find the jugular.
‘She’s okay. Passed out, that’s all.’ Marc looked helplessly at Benny. ‘What now?’
‘Search me. She can’t stay here, anyway.’ Benny quickly released the deadlock that had just defeated Emma and opened the door. He pressed a switch on the landing and the stairwell was bathed in yellowish, energy-saving twilight. ‘Come on, we’d better take her to A and E.’
They lugged Emma outside, each with an arm around her shoulders. Marc could hardly support her weight. The last few hours had weakened his already debilitated body, and he wondered if it was wise to manhandle an overweight woman down five flights of stairs with a splinter in his neck. Constantin had even forbidden him to tote boxes around when he was moving house.
‘I’ll help you get her to the car,’ Benny said when they reached the third floor. ‘After that, you’ll have to manage by yourself.’
‘Where are you off to so late?’ Marc panted. He would have liked to take a breather, but Benny seemed to be in a hurry and even put on speed.
‘Sorry, I can’t tell you.’
‘Look, you can’t just run off. You owe me.’
They had to pause briefly between the third and second floors because Emma’s feet had caught in the banisters. She uttered a groan but seemed unaware of the brothers’ exertions.
‘What gives you that idea?’ Benny demanded.
‘I saved your life.’
‘Yet another reason for steering clear of you.’
‘I know you hate me, but do you think I’d be here if I had any choice?’
They had at last reached the heavy, wrought-iron front door. Marc, who was bathed in sweat, had to support Emma on his own. Cold air streamed into the already chilly passage as Benny opened the door. Then he came back and they lugged Emma outside.
‘Do me one last favour, Benny, please. Call a friend – you’ve got your contacts, after all. Check that number plate and get the owner’s address for me, and you’ll never see me again.’
‘No.’
They sat Emma down on a graffiti-daubed ledge beside the entrance. Marc satisfied himself that she was safely propped against the wall. Then he went over to his brother, who was standing in the middle of the forecourt, feeling in his pockets for his car key.
‘Why not, you bastard?’ His breath emerged in dense clouds as he barred Benny’s path.
Benny’s block of flats was situated in a cobbled, traffic-becalmed street where the parking slots were arranged so as to slow the traffic. The numerous shops whose windows illuminated the district at night were in keeping with its character. Anyone who moved to Prenzlberg was hip, modern, eco-friendly, liberal-minded and fond of children. The residents tended not to be Berliners, so the local businesses were predominantly Spanish delicatessens, English-speaking kitas, Indian teahouses and offbeat designer boutiques. The area around Kollwitzplatz was one of Europe’s most child-abundant neighbourhoods, so it was no wonder the street felt as if it were in a city of the dead. Working parents still had two hours before their alarm clocks went off. As for the artists and students, they were either asleep or making a night of it two streets away, where there were bars and pubs still open.
‘Hey, I’m talking to you. Why can’t you do me one last favour before I get out of your life for good?’
‘Because the number plate won’t get you anywhere.’ Benny screwed up his eyes and stared past Marc at the street behind him. Scenting a trap, Marc suppressed an urge to turn round.
‘How do you know?’
‘I already checked it.’
‘How? You didn’t call anyone.’
Or had he? Had he texted someone unobserved, and had the message just been answered? Marc wasn’t sure. Far too many inexplicable things had happened in the last few hours.
‘I didn’t have to call anyone,’ Benny said, pointing across the street. Marc turned to look and his heart stood still.
The ambulance was parked in the goods entrance beside a café on the opposite side of the street. As though in response to a word of command, the driver started the engine and inched out into the road.
The occupants behind the tinted windscreen were invisible this time, but not the illuminated licence plate: B – Q 1371.
‘What on earth’s going on here?’ Marc demanded, swinging round. The ledge was deserted. Emma wasn’t sitting on it any more; she was standing close behind them with the muzzle of Benny’s automatic pointing straight at his head.
42
‘So I was right!’ Marc felt almost relieved at not being mistaken for once. Emma was a threat after all. She wasn’t on his side of the abyss; or, if she was, only so as to push him over the edge.
It had all been just a ploy. The papers in the hotel room, the photo of Sandra, the fainting fit that had enabled her to snatch Benny’s gun while they were hefting her downstairs.
‘We have to get going,’ Emma said hoarsely. She was still looking utterly drained. Her moon face was puffier than ever, her sweaty cheeks were threaded with dark-red capillaries, her eyelids quivering with fatigue, but she still had sufficient energy to transfer the automatic from brother to brother at one-second intervals. She also cast hurried glance
s at the ambulance, which was now driving past them at walking pace, presumably because the driver had spotted the gun in her hand and preferred to avoid another confrontation.
‘What do you want me to do?’ Marc asked quietly. His state of mind had automatically switched to the almost dispassionate mode he’d adopted during years of conflict resolution with his street kids.
‘Over to my car, please!’ Emma indicated her Beetle, which was parked in a bay some twenty metres away with one wheel on the kerb.
‘Okay, I’ll come with you,’ Marc replied. ‘But first you must give me that gun.’
‘No!’ she snapped. ‘We’re in danger, don’t you understand? Quick!’ She shouted the last words: ‘We must get out of here!’
‘Be quiet!’
They all turned their heads and stared at the entrance to the building next door, but the man who had shouted at them was nowhere to be seen. The door was wide open, but the passage beyond it was in total darkness.
‘Who’s there?’ Emma called, glancing over her shoulder. The only response was a faint scratching sound followed by the metallic rattle of a chain being dragged across a hard stone surface.
‘Hello?’ she called again. Absurd enough already, the situation became more ludicrous still when a dog’s furry head peered around the door post. The blackish retriever cross-breed looked straight at them, gave a cavernous yawn and ambled out into the rain. Its fur was so thick and matted the raindrops couldn’t have penetrated more than a couple of millimetres.
‘Come back, Freddy,’ called the reedy voice that had just shouted at them. ‘Come here and go back to sleep.’
Just a tramp. We’ve woken a down-and-out.
Emma’s relief was palpable. The only witnesses to their altercation were a harmless vagrant and his mongrel sleeping rough in the entrance to a building. Refocusing her attention on Marc and Benny, she jerked the gun in the direction of her car.
‘Where are we going?’ asked Marc.
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