by Ann Gosslin
Hélène paled at the sight of the knife. ‘I won’t use it unless I have to,’ he said, with as much menace as he could muster. Desperate times called for desperate measures.
A final peep through the shutters satisfied him that the coast was clear. The snow had all but stopped and only a few flakes drifted through the air. He pushed her ahead of him out the door. No one was about, but through the trees he could sense several pairs of eyes watching him. He charged ahead and together they stumbled in the direction of the main gate.
58
Amongst the dense stand of trees not a soul was in sight. Where was everyone? The clinic must be in lockdown, with strict orders for everyone to keep indoors. By the time they reached the gate, Vidor’s hands ached with the cold. When he turned the handle, it sprang open. So far, so good. Vidor sucked air into his aching lungs and hustled Hélène through to the other side.
‘Stop, please.’ She gasped in the freezing air. ‘Let me catch my breath.’
‘There’s no time.’ He scanned the horizon. ‘We have to catch the train.’
The funicular was no more than fifty metres away, but it felt much further as Vidor hurried Hélène along. He was sorry to have involved her, but it couldn’t be helped. Didn’t she understand she was his only chance at freedom? In recent days, he’d begun to feel a certain fondness towards her, in spite of her loony ways, but that was over now. She would never forgive him, not after this.
The funicular operator stepped out of his hut, his weathered face impassive, though his black eyes swept their faces with an air of mistrust. He showed no sign of surprise at the sight of them, bound at the wrist, as they hurried towards him. Gessen must have warned him not to interfere. For the first time since his arrival at the clinic, Vidor felt in charge of his own fate.
The operator closed the doors and started the engine. Vidor held tight to Hélène’s arm as they trundled down the mountain. The sound of the wheels grinding against the rails on the steep incline shredded his nerves. The twenty-minute ride felt like an eternity. At the bottom of the hill, the operator opened the door and stood aside, but before Vidor could step out, the man fixed him with a hard stare. Two coal-black eyes in a craggy face. ‘Attention, monsieur. This will not end well for you.’
Vidor felt a spasm of foreboding, as if the man were an oracle in disguise. But he squeezed his eyes shut and turned away. Don’t panic. Just go. In the village, their train was just pulling into the station with a desultory wheeze. Eleven sixteen, on the dot. Only a few people waited on the platform. A sandy-haired man in a blue ski parka clutched the strap of a black carry-on bag, while another man hefted a snowboard on his shoulder. A woman in a bright red coat smiled at her two young daughters as she helped them board the carriage. Vidor and Hélène were right behind her.
Vidor eyed the two men who’d entered the carriage with them. The one in the blue parka looked out of place. Was it someone from Gessen’s staff? He tightened his hold on Hélène’s arm. It would take them a full hour to reach Montreux. Another hour and a half to Geneva airport, where they would board the flight to London. Plenty of time for things to go wrong. As much as he wanted to believe Gessen was a man of his word, Vidor was sure he would do anything to keep him from getting on the plane, at least with Hélène in tow. Perhaps, if he… the train jolted and slowed. The brakes squealed and they jerked to a stop.
Hélène, seated next to the window, strained to see along the tracks. This couldn’t be a coincidence. Trapped like a rat in a hole. They must have stopped by order of the railway police.
The minutes ticked by. Vidor held tight to Hélène’s wrist. She was alert as a meerkat, poised to flee at the first sign of danger. His heart kept time with the clock, his breath stuck in his throat. But the engine started up again, and they began to move. When he relaxed his grip, Hélène shifted in the seat. ‘I need to use the facilities.’
He stared at her and frowned. He hadn’t thought of that. But now he’d have to untie their hands. It wasn’t as if he could go in with her. ‘All right. But I’ll be standing just outside the door.’ He struggled to loosen the knots. When she was free, she rubbed the red marks on her wrist. A pang of regret shot through his heart. What had he done? But it couldn’t be helped.
They stood and moved awkwardly down the aisle. Vidor kept a firm grip on her arm. The train carriage was nearly empty, and no one looked at them as they passed. Not even the man in the blue parka, typing away on his laptop.
‘Don’t lock it,’ he said, when they reached the end of the carriage. ‘I’ll be waiting right outside.’
He stood with his back against the door, surveying the passengers. He fingered the knife in his pocket, hoping he wouldn’t have to use it. But she seemed to be taking an eternity. He knocked on the door. ‘Hélène?’ No sound but the whirring of the electric hand dryer. ‘Hélène?’ He rattled the door. It was locked. Idiot. Of course she wasn’t coming out. What made him think he could trust her?
‘Hélène?’ When he slammed his shoulder against the door, it flew open, and he nearly fell inside.
She gazed at him levelly, her eyes sharp as flint. ‘There’s no need to panic. I’m not going anywhere. Obviously.’
Back in their seats, when he picked up the cord to tie their hands together again, she shook her head. ‘I’ll accompany you to London. But you’re not tying me up.’
‘I need your help.’ He blushed at the desperation in his voice.
‘Which you have. But if you hurt me, or I feel threatened in any way, I’ll scream bloody murder.’ She gave him a hard stare. Perhaps he’d underestimated her. Though if the story she’d told him was true, her lifetime of pain and troubles would certainly account for the steely determination in her eyes.
He stowed the length of rope in his pocket. ‘If the weather is kind enough to cooperate,’ he said, in a toffee-nosed accent. ‘London can be very pleasant this time of year.’
She suppressed a smile, but he could read her thoughts. Mid-January? More likely it would be dismal. Damp and grey from the winter fog.
After arriving at Montreux without further incident, they changed for the train to Geneva Airport. Vidor studied the passengers. The man in the blue parka with the black carry-on boarded the train with them, which was a bit worrying, but the other one, the one with the snowboard, was nowhere to be seen. Vidor dared to feel a flicker of relief. Gessen must be playing it smart. Better to let him go, and why not? He wasn’t a criminal. Whatever Gessen might believe in that lunatic imagination of his, he hadn’t killed anyone. Once back in Cambridge, his time away in a remote mountain loony bin would make a good story for his colleagues. ‘Nice facilities, but the clinic director is a bit of a nut job.’ That’s what he’d say at the pub he frequented on Fridays. The regulars would stand him rounds of drinks in a belated celebration of his prize and sing ‘For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow’.
Home, home. His heart fairly leapt with joy. His tidy house and garden. Magda’s steady loyalty and affection. Both as housekeeper and – whatever it was they had – it was very pleasant indeed. If he had time, he would get her something at the airport as a token of his appreciation. A box of Swiss chocolates, perhaps. She would like that.
* * *
The departure hall was teeming with passengers, and he scanned the crowd. No sign of the man in the blue parka, or anyone he recognised from the clinic. They checked in for their flight without a hitch, though there was a moment when he thought Hélène might whisper to the ticket agent that she was being forced to leave the country against her will.
That neither of them had any luggage, not even a carry-on, elicited no surprise. The woman at the check-in desk merely handed over their boarding passes with a practised smile and wished them a pleasant flight.
They passed through security without incident. Mobs of vacationers, en route to their winter holidays, swarmed the departure hall. It would be raining in London. Or perhaps there might be a hint of winter sun. It felt like he’d been away for years.<
br />
Vidor checked the sea of faces. No one looked alarming. No beefy men in dark glasses with sidearms concealed under their suit jacket. At the departure board, he looked for their gate number. Their flight was on time. In a little more than an hour, he would be on the plane and nearly home.
***
A man next to Hélène on Vidor’s left glanced at his watch. Dapper in a grey cashmere coat and cobalt tie, he tapped Hélène on the shoulder. ‘Pardon me, but I believe you dropped something.’
‘Did I?’ Hélène peered at an embroidered handkerchief on the floor. ‘Oh yes, I believe that’s mine.’ Vidor released his grip so she could bend to retrieve it, and in that moment, an arm snaked around his neck and snapped his head back.
‘Hélène!’
But the man in the cashmere coat was leading her away. She looked back over her shoulder and gave him a sad smile. ‘I’m sorry,’ she mouthed. But it was too late, she had betrayed him, just like all the others. Stupid of him to forget about her phone. A quick text to Gessen would have been enough to torpedo his plans. It all happened so quickly. No one shouted or screamed. Two men in dark coats joined the man who had him in a choke hold, and together they marched him briskly through the crowd. Impossible to fight back. And what would be the point? He was the victim here, but they would drag him into a back room and treat him like a common criminal.
59
At the end of a long, brightly lit corridor, Vidor was handed over to a uniformed security guard. When he looked back, the three men in dark suits had faded into the crowd. The guard typed a code on the panel by a locked door and escorted him through. Vidor stopped short. It wasn’t the barren room with grimy walls and tube lighting he was expecting, but some kind of high-class lounge. Two black leather sofas framed a polished glass coffee table. An enormous vase of lilies and red dahlias graced a table by the wall. Subterranean or high in the air, he couldn’t say. Frosted windows let in a watery light, though nothing of the outside world could be seen.
The guard released his arm. Afraid of what might happen next, Vidor longed to curl up on one of the sofas and shut out the world. Would he spend the rest of his days in some grotty prison, at the mercy of hooligans and thugs? Whatever happened now was out of his hands. With his grand getaway plan reduced to rubble, his only wish was to close his eyes and succumb to the oblivion of the dead. A door clicked open, and a dark shape swam into view. Gessen, naturally. Who else could have orchestrated all this?
After a quiet word with the guard, who nodded and left the room, Gessen indicated one of the sofas. ‘Why don’t you have a seat, Vidor?’ His eyes were kind. ‘I can see you’re very tired.’
Like a truculent schoolboy, Vidor allowed himself to be led to one of the sofas, where he dropped onto the cushions and closed his eyes. The other sofa creaked as Gessen settled across from him.
A knock on the door. He gazed dejectedly through narrowed lids, expecting to be hauled away in chains. But a uniformed man stepped inside, bearing a tray with two glasses, a plate of pastries, and a bottle of sparkling water. Vidor accepted the glass Gessen handed him and clutched it in both hands. So tired. If he could just close his eyes for a few minutes, all would be well.
‘Is Hélène all right?’ Vidor’s voice seemed to come from a long way off.
Skimming above the surface of the known world, his mind floated untethered amongst the tangle of synapses, where each spark was orchestrated in perfect harmony. Thinking, feeling, seeing. Taste, touch, smell. What a wonderful machine the human brain was. If only the mind were so easily mapped…
‘Vidor, can you hear me?’
As he tried to focus on the man across from him, it struck Vidor, for the first time, how much he and Gessen looked alike. Dark hair streaked with grey at the temples, eyes on the same spectrum of mossy green. If they stood side by side in front of a mirror, it would not surprise him to see they were of equal height and build. How odd to discover that he and his tormenter occupied two sides of the same, though slightly tarnished, coin.
He opened his mouth to speak, thought better of it. Tried again. What was the point of anything? When he finally managed to form the words, his voice came out as a croak. ‘It’s the end of the line, isn’t it? My life is over.’ His tongue felt strange in his mouth, and his face and hands not wholly his own.
‘Why would you say that?’ Gessen sounded genuinely upset. ‘If you’re suffering from a dissociative disorder, and I have every reason to believe you are, there are therapies that can help you.’
For a moment, Vidor considered going along with the good doctor’s diagnosis, relieved at the thought of taking an easier path. But Gessen would catch on to him eventually, and they would end up right back where they were now.
‘I don’t have dissociative identity disorder.’ He sat up straight and met Gessen’s eyes. ‘Though I’ve only just become aware of my particular affliction, if you wish to put a name to it, I suppose you could call it a case of severely repressed identity or perhaps dissociative amnesia.’ He pushed away the empty glass. ‘My flash of awareness occurred a few days ago, after waking suddenly in the night. It felt as though a glass bubble had shattered in my skull. Apparently, completely unknown to me, a different aspect of myself, the better part it would seem, has been locked away in the darkest and most primitive area of my brain.’
Gessen had grown still, his eyes fixed on Vidor’s own.
‘While some small part of myself, though very faint, like the signal from a long-extinguished star, has always known who I am – or who I was – I’d never thought to examine it properly. Nebulous signs would appear on occasion, spread out thinly over the years. Strange blackouts, bouts of lost time. Evidence of sleepwalking or eating foods I don’t like. That other person, or persona, I suppose you would call it, had been killed off long ago, and once he ceased to exist, I never gave him a moment’s thought. For nearly forty years, until the glass bubble broke, I had successfully erased, even to my own conscious mind, the person I once was.’
Vidor turned to look at the vase of blood-red flowers. ‘It’s not such a strange phenomenon, when you think of it. The suppression or even complete eradication of one’s identity. It happens to everyone, doesn’t it? When a boy becomes a man, the child he once was ceases to exist. The man in his fifties does not view the world through the eyes of a five-year-old. That child is gone, resting for decades, undisturbed in his grave. If not for your relentless probing and prying, the boy I once was, long dead, though at one time full of life and wondrous dreams, would have been content to remain in the dark for all eternity.’
‘That’s all very poetic, but…’ Gessen gave him a puzzled look.
Had he not yet figured it out? Vidor inwardly scoffed. Not quite the genius he made himself out to be. He leaned back into the soft leather and closed his eyes. ‘A long time ago, I began life as an illiterate boy from a poor village in a war-torn country. That boy, abandoned at birth and left to die, came from nothing and expected nothing from life, not even to survive. Until a kind foreign woman discovered he had a sharp mind and a knack for learning and got him enrolled at a local school. The boy worked hard at his lessons and excelled in his exams, all the while dreaming that he would escape one day to the gleaming city he’d read about in books. After many years of toil, not to mention struggling with the kind of loneliness and shame only an outcast endures, the boy grew up to become a world-class neuroscientist and Cambridge don, known to the world, of course, by a different name.’
He paused to allow Gessen a chance to speak, but for once the man had nothing to say. Vidor kept his eyes shut and tried to recall the sounds and smells of the souk in that long-ago village, the feel of warm stones on his feet, the scorching sands. Under the heat of the blistering sun, Vidor faded away and Malik raised his face to the light. ‘Permettez-moi de vous présenter ce garçon mort depuis longtemps. Allow me to introduce you to that long-dead boy.’ Malik extended his hand and spoke the name given to him at birth, ‘Malik Sayid. I believe
the two of you might have met once or twice in your treatment room. But here he is properly, in the flesh, so to speak, though his essence grows fainter with the years and he could, at any minute, be forced into hiding again.’
The startled look on Gessen’s face gave him no small measure of satisfaction.
‘I’m sure you can piece together the rest of the story without my help. But first, let me assure you, in my defence, that I haven’t been lying to you all this time. Until the other day, when I woke just before dawn with a terrible headache and noticed something odd about the paintings in my room. Nine sandpipers, instead of ten, and in the other painting, the camel caravan glittering on the horizon, clear as day. That’s when I felt something shatter in my skull. Like a bolt of lightning from the sky, and it all came back to me. Who I was, and how I came to be the man known as Vidor Kiraly.’
His throat felt parched, and he drank down another glass of water. ‘I suppose you have gleaned some hints from your hypnosis sessions, or truth serums, or whatever else you used on me. What you’ve been missing was the why and the how. Who and what were Malik and Vidor to each other? I can only surmise what you must have been thinking: split personality or delusional misidentification disorder. Excellent possibilities.’ He shook his head. ‘Neither of them correct.’
So tired. When would they allow him to sleep? ‘I was hoping it wouldn’t come to this,’ he said, ‘the unseemly baring of the soul.’ He rubbed his eyes. ‘A simple matter, or so I thought, to endure a course of treatment at your clinic, no worse for having done so, and return to my life as if nothing had happened. But that’s not how it worked out. And here we are.’
‘As if nothing had happened?’ Gessen clasped his hands and leaned forward. ‘Is that how you describe the events of the events of the past two and a half months? The man you attacked in Copenhagen is dead. You are a “person of interest” in the death of Ismail Mahmoud. And it is not yet clear to me what your involvement was in the drowning death of Vidor Sovàny.’