The Child

by Sebastian Fitzek

  ‘Him I’ve heard of,’ Stern grunted.

  ‘What about this Tanjit?’ asked Borchert.

  ‘Taranjit,’ Carina amended. ‘The boy claimed to be the reincarnation of a youth from a neighbouring village who had lost his life in a road accident in 1992. He could recall the most incredible details even though he’d never left his native village.’

  ‘Then he must have overheard his parents discussing the accident. Or read about it in a newspaper.’

  ‘Yes, that’s how most people try to explain it away. But listen to this.’

  Simon could feel Carina’s heart beating faster.

  ‘A very well-known Indian criminologist, Raj Singh Chauhan, wanted some objective proof, so what did he do?’

  ‘Submit the boy to a lie-detector test like Simon?’

  ‘Better than that. Chauhan is an expert in the field of forensic graphology. He compared Taranjit’s handwriting with that of the dead boy.’

  ‘Oh, come on …’

  ‘No, it’s true. Their handwriting was identical. Explain that!’

  Simon didn’t hear Stern’s answer. Although he had firmly resolved to remain awake for another minute at least, he couldn’t fight off sleep any longer. He caught the name Felix and some reference to a voice on a DVD, and then he finally drifted off. His disturbing dream began as usual, but today the door opened rather more easily.

  Nor did he find it as difficult as he had the first time to descend the steps that led down into the gloomy cellar.

  17

  Simon woke up, thrown forward in his seat when the car came to a sudden stop.

  ‘Be more careful, can’t you?’ Carina said angrily. Her voice sounded rather husky, as if she’d been crying again.

  ‘Sorry,’ Borchert growled, ‘I thought there was a filter light.’ A moment later Simon felt his head pressed into Carina’s bosom as the car rounded a corner. The tyres began to make a drumming sound, which indicated that they were driving over cobblestones.

  ‘Do you know why you were sent that DVD, Robert?’

  Simon stifled a yawn. He had no idea what they were talking about.

  ‘The bastard wants me to do his dirty work – find the murderer.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ said Carina. ‘No one capable of putting together a video like that, which incorporates material over ten years old, needs to enlist the help of some stray lawyer.’

  ‘The lady has a point,’ said Borchert.

  ‘So what’s your explanation?’

  ‘When someone goes to such lengths after so many years, only two things spring to mind: money and money.’

  ‘Very funny, Andi. Can’t you come up with something a bit more concrete?’

  ‘Yes, try this for size. Simon said the men were a bad lot – criminals, in other words. Maybe they were all in the same outfit, or something. Maybe they’d made a fat profit on a drugs deal and one of them wouldn’t split the proceeds. He wasted all the others bar one.’

  ‘The owner of the voice on the DVD,’ said Stern.

  ‘Exactly. And now he’s after the murderer because he wants his cut.’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Carina. ‘It sounds plausible, actually, but how can Simon know all this if you deny the possibility of his rebirth? And who’s the boy with the birthmark? We don’t have any answers. Only one thing’s for sure, Robert: you’re being used. The question is, why?’

  ‘OK, people.’ Borchert applied the brakes. ‘We’re nearly there.’

  Simon blinked. His sleepy eyes focused first on two swollen raindrops trickling like tears down the tinted window. Then he looked out. A neatly trimmed hedge was gliding past. Rising beyond it was a grassy hill strewn with dead, sodden leaves.

  Visibility improved as Borchert reduced speed once more. Simon extricated himself from Carina’s embrace and pressed his sweaty palm against the cold glass. Although the hill ahead didn’t ring a bell, he had seen the sandstone church before. It looked just like the one in his drawing on the hospital window.

  18

  ‘I don’t believe this!’

  Borchert’s laughter drew some black looks from the members of the funeral procession. He put out his tongue at the lady with the knife-edge parting in her short black hair and grinned when she faced the front again, indignant.

  ‘No, honestly, this day will really go down in the annals.’

  Even Stern had to admit that the situation wasn’t without an element of comedy.

  They had found it hard to believe their eyes and ears on entering the sandstone church ten minutes earlier. Standing at the unadorned Protestant altar was a man with a crewcut and bright, friendly eyes. He was not wearing clerical vestments, just a dark-blue three-piece suit. In lieu of a tie he had draped a green scarf round his shoulders, and the fact that this was rather clumsily knotted together on his chest seemed somehow endearing. The same went for his obituary address. Having just mentioned the deceased’s habit of rolling in wild boar dung during his many walks in the forest, he held up an over-life-size photo of the dear departed, and the predominantly female members of the congregation bent a sorrowful eye on the tawny Basset Hound, which must have weighed at least thirty kilos.

  Ecumenical Animal Funerals. Officiating priest: Rev. Thomas Ahrendt. Last Saturday in the month. Such was the wording of a notice in the porch, but they hadn’t spotted it until they followed the rest of the mourners outside. Now they were trudging through the drizzle along a rough gravel path beyond the church. Not for the first time, Stern cursed himself for not bringing an umbrella. His shirt was clinging to his chest as if he’d taken it straight from the wash. Much more of this and he would catch pneumonia like Simon. Fortunately, the boy had stayed behind in the warm car with Carina.

  ‘I don’t believe this,’ Borchert said again with a laugh that sounded like someone trying to cough up a fishbone. ‘They’re actually toting the fat brute along in a coffin.’

  ‘That’s OK. I did the same with the first dog I owned.’

  ‘You’re joking.’

  ‘Why not? I was Simon’s age at the time, and I was grateful to my father for organizing his send-off. Mind you, we buried him in the garden, not in a regular graveyard like this.’

  They were nearing the fence that separated the church’s official precincts from the animal home’s private plot.

  Stern lengthened his stride and caught up with the unconventional parson, who was holding open a waist-high gate for the mourners to pass through. He greeted Stern with a handshake and a broad smile that bared his gummy dentures. Stern would almost have preferred him not to look so friendly.

  ‘Please forgive me for intruding, but is this also the way to the official graveyard?’

  Ahrendt raised his eyebrows. ‘Oh, so you aren’t one of Hannibal’s nearest and dearest?’

  ‘Afraid not. I’m looking for a last resting place for a, er, human friend.’

  ‘In that case I must disappoint you. The animal home rents this site from us. Our parish is too poor to maintain a graveyard for people. You’ll have to go to our local town.’

  ‘I see.’

  The parson excused himself, and Stern watched him waddle over to the mourners, who were waiting beside a big rhododendron bush at the far end of the field.

  Borchert was still shaking his head at the parson’s last words, which he’d been just in time to catch. ‘It’s crazy,’ he muttered. ‘They can’t afford a proper graveyard, but they reserve a whole football pitch for animals.’

  This was something of an exaggeration. The animal graveyard, which was divided into plots, could not have measured more than fifty metres by fifty. It did, however, seem remarkably spacious for its purpose. Stern could hardly believe there was any great demand for animal burials in the district, but the scattered tombstones appeared to refute this. Somewhat untidily arranged and interspersed with coniferous trees, they jutted from the ground like crooked teeth. He decided to take a closer look before returning to the car.

  ‘I’ll wait here,’ Borc
hert called after him. Having found a dry spot beneath a massive oak tree, he was clearly reluctant to abandon it.

  Lili, Micky, Molly, Bella, Dandy, Hunk … The names on the animalgraves he passed were as varied as their tombstones. Most of the latter consisted of a white cross or a small slab of granite with a plain inscription. A few owners had dug a bit deeper into their pockets and invested in some form of grave maintenance. Lying in front of ‘Alfons’, for example, were two white orchids and a freshly woven wreath. As for ‘Cleopatra’, she must have been a true queen among cats before she was ‘murdered by a motorist’ six months earlier. At least, so said the inscription on a brass plate screwed to the miniature Pyramid of Khufu that served as her tombstone.

  ‘This is pointless,’ Borchert called. ‘There’s no Lucas here.’

  ‘How do you know?’ Stern turned round. Borchert had found a green display case near his oak tree and was tapping the glass with his thumbnail.

  ‘This is a list of all the animals buried here – from Attila to Zoe.’

  Raindrops the size of raisins were spattering the nape of Stern’s neck at irregular intervals. He felt as if he was standing under a sodden tree and someone was shaking it violently.

  ‘There’s no Lucas, though. Let’s go. We can’t dig up the whole graveyard – those old girls would have a fit.’

  Stern looked over at the parson, who was delivering a final address with his back to them. The freshening breeze from the lake was carrying his words away in the opposite direction.

  ‘OK,’ Stern said at length. Anyway, I’ve had enough dead bodies for one day. He was just bending down to scrape a brownish wad of wet leaves from the toe of his shoe when he stopped short.

  There’s no Lucas … Borchert’s words were floating around in his head. He shielded his eyes from the rain with his hand and tried to make some sense of the scene in front of him. It was like viewing his surroundings through a dirty windscreen equipped with worn wipers. The more he blinked, the more blurred the overall picture became.

  That little group of people with the parson. The Pyramid of Khufu. Those orchids.

  Something was wrong here.

  He had seen something significant but failed to classify it correctly. Like entering an important appointment in the wrong space in a desk diary.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Borchert, who had spotted his sudden tension.

  Stern raised the forefinger of his left hand and used the other hand to fish out his mobile. At the same time he made his way back to the row of graves he had just been examining.

  ‘Is Simon asleep?’ he asked.

  Carina picked up at the first ringtone. ‘No, but I’m glad you called.’

  He ignored the note of concern in her voice because he himself felt scared of the question he was about to ask Simon.

  ‘Let me speak to him.’

  ‘No, not right now.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘He can’t talk now.’

  Stern bent over one of the less elaborate tombstones. A nagging pain in his forehead was spreading to his eyes. He tilted his head back.

  ‘Is he all right?’

  ‘Yes. What did you want to say to him?’

  ‘Please ask him what name he wrote on the picture he drew at the hospital. Please, this is very important. Ask him how he signed it.’

  The phone was laid aside. Stern wasn’t sure, but he thought he heard a car door creak open. The rustling and hissing in the background sounded like poor radio reception. At least half a minute went by before he heard a beep – Carina had inadvertently pressed a key when picking up the phone again.

  ‘Are you there?’

  ‘Yes.’ Stern’s fingers trembled as he ran them over the letters carved into the granite. He mouthed the name to himself as Carina said it.

  ‘“Pluto”. Simon signed his drawing “Pluto”. But you’d better come here right away.’

  Stern had stopped listening. His replies were purely automatic.

  ‘Why?’ he asked softly, still staring at the tombstone bearing the name of the cartoon character. The rain made it look as if it were steeped in oil.

  An animal? A human? A head?

  He couldn’t think why Simon had brought them to this place, which corresponded to a drawing made by more than one person. By a boy and by someone dead. At this moment he could only try to work out why Carina was close to yelling at him in panic.

  ‘What’s happened, for God’s sake?’

  ‘It’s Simon,’ she replied in a clipped voice. ‘He says he’s going to do it again.’

  ‘Do what?’ Stern straightened up and looked over at Borchert. ‘What’s he going to do?’

  And what does ‘again’ mean?

  ‘Hurry. I think he’d better tell you that himself.’

  19

  There was no one else there. The church was deserted, and he found it hard to believe that anyone could derive spiritual consolation from these bare surroundings. Stern took off his wet overcoat and draped it over his arm. He regretted this at once. It was cold and draughty inside. The air smelled of dust and old hymn books. It was lucky the sun wasn’t shining through the stained-glass windows or the peeling plaster might have seemed even more obvious to the eye. Stern wouldn’t have been surprised if the verger had hung the crucifix on the wall purely to conceal some structural defect. The church certainly didn’t generate an intimate atmosphere.

  ‘… I don’t know what to do. Is it right? Is it wrong? Should I do it, or should I …’

  Stern listened with bated breath to the low murmur coming from the second pew from the front. He had, of course, spotted Simon as soon as he came in. At this range he looked like a miniature adult, an introspective little old man communing with his Maker. Stern tiptoed towards the source of the whispers but couldn’t prevent his leather soles from crunching on the dusty flagstones.

  ‘Please give me a sign …’

  Simon gave a start and looked up. He quickly unclasped his hands as if embarrassed to be seen at prayer.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Stern, ‘I didn’t mean to interrupt you.’

  ‘It’s all right.’ The boy shuffled sideways to make room for him.

  No wonder church attendances are falling if the pews are so hard, flashed through Stern’s mind as he sat down.

  ‘I won’t be a moment,’ Simon whispered, looking back at the altar. Stern wanted to grab the boy and hurry him outside. Carina, nervously smoking a cigarette, was waiting in the porch with Borchert.

  ‘Are you praying to God?’ he asked in a low voice. Alone or not, they were whispering as they had in that cellar at the zoo.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘For something in particular?’

  ‘That depends.’

  ‘Never mind, it’s none of my business.’

  ‘No, it isn’t that. All I mean is …’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You wouldn’t understand. You don’t believe in God.’

  ‘Who says so?’

  ‘Carina. She says something bad happened to you once, and since then you’ve never loved anyone. Not even yourself.’

  Stern looked at the boy. In the semi-darkness of the church he suddenly realized what aid workers meant when they spoke of the blank expressions on the faces of boy soldiers. Smooth-skinned youngsters with death in their eyes. He cleared his throat.

  ‘Just now you said something about a sign. What do you want God to tell you?’

  ‘Whether I should carry on doing it.’

  Stern remembered Carina’s words: He says he’s going to do it again …

  ‘Doing what?’

  ‘Well, it.’

  ‘I don’t follow you.’

  ‘I fell asleep in the car. Earlier on.’

  ‘You mean you had another dream?’

  Click. The candle on the altar seemed to mutate into the flickering light bulb that illuminated Simon’s nightmare memories.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘About the murders?’

&nbs
p; ‘Yes, exactly.’ Simon cast a surreptitious glance at his upturned hands like a schoolboy with a crib written on the skin in ballpoint. Apart from the delicate tracery of lines on his fingers and palms, Stern could see nothing that was helping him to find the right words.

  ‘I’ve remembered why I wrote “Pluto” on the picture.’

  Click.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It was his favourite soft toy.’

  ‘Whose?’

  ‘Lucas Schneider. He was exactly the same age as me. Back then, I mean. Twelve years ago.’

  ‘You think you killed him?’

  Back then. In your other life?

  Stern’s headache grew worse the closer he got to the heart of this crazy enigma.

  ‘No!’ Simon glared at him indignantly. The life had come back into his eyes, albeit mingled with anger. ‘I didn’t murder any children!’

  ‘I know. But the others, the criminals?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You were a sort of avenger?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  Simon’s shoulders began to shake.

  Stern was about to call Carina. If Simon was going to have a fit, he hoped she’d brought the right medication with her. Then he noticed tears on the boy’s cheeks.

  ‘It’s all right. Come on.’ He put out his hand – gingerly, as if the boy’s shoulder might scorch it. ‘Let’s go.’

  ‘No, not yet.’ Simon sniffed. ‘I haven’t finished yet. I must ask him if I really ought to do it.’

  Click. Click. Click.

  Having steadied for a brief moment, the cellar light seemed to be flickering more violently than before.

  ‘Do what?’

  ‘I didn’t finish the job.’

  ‘I don’t understand, Simon. What do you mean? What didn’t you finish?’

  ‘Those men. I killed a lot of them earlier on, I know that for a fact. Not just the two you’ve already found. There were more – lots more, but I didn’t deal with them all. There’s still one to go.’

  Now it was Stern who found it hard to restrain his tears. The boy was in urgent need of a psychologist, not a lawyer.