The Child

by Sebastian Fitzek

  Good, he thought. If that woman really is waiting for me in there, she obviously isn’t interested in buying a bed.

  He turned and treated himself to a sight of the imposing domed roof of Mexikoplatz’s Art Nouveau S-Bahn station. He could well imagine what the residents of this elegant square in the heart of Zehlendorf thought of such an eyesore as the abandoned restaurant, but he also wondered how its owner could have gone bust in so prosperous a district.

  A train went rattling across the bridge, so he almost failed to hear the sound behind him. Then he registered it and turned round. Sure enough, the door he had vainly tried to open a moment ago was ajar. He glanced over his shoulder. When no passers-by appeared to be looking, he slipped inside. What greeted him first was the smell typical of an empty, disused building. Then he caught a whiff of something quite unexpected: expensive perfume.

  The closer he drew to the woman sitting smoking at a table in the far left corner, the more he amended his estimate of her age. Seen from the doorway she had looked forty, whereas now, as he sat down across the table from her, he guessed her to be at least twenty years older. Botox and the scalpel had clearly been her periodic response to the ageing process, a fact that became readily apparent only at close range. The unnatural smoothness and rigidity of her face were in stark contrast to the mottled patches on the backs of her hands, and her flaccid neck cried out for similar treatment. In spite of those attributes, Stern felt sure he would fail to recognize her in a police line-up. She obviously had a good reason for wearing a silver page-boy wig and hiding her eyes behind a pair of dark glasses that made her look like Puck the Housefly.

  ‘May I see your ID, please?’

  Unsurprised by her opening question, Stern took out his wallet.

  Borchert had warned him that certain paedophile circles regarded the surrender of a person’s anonymity as their best protection. Everyone knew everyone else. Like the mafia, members of a paedophile ring took great care to render someone potentially punishable by law before they accepted him into their community. A newcomer would be photographed with his ID in one hand and a piece of illegal pornography in the other. The photo would then be placed on file.

  Stern cleared his throat. Uninvited, he deposited Harry’s polaroids on the brown-and-white-checked tablecloth.

  ‘I’m not a beginner.’

  The woman’s sole response was an almost imperceptible twitch of her drumskin-taut cheek. Even if it hadn’t been so before, the situation was now as clear as daylight. Any normal person would have taken one look at those photos and called the police, especially if they’d been expecting some innocent sales talk. In the event, the bony woman drew on her cigarette, which was as thin as the fingers that held it. She didn’t even trouble to turn the disgusting pictures over.

  ‘For all that, I must ask you to stand up.’

  Stern did as he was told.

  ‘Now get undressed.’

  He was expecting that too. After all, he could have been an agent provocateur who didn’t mind committing a criminal offence, or someone with perfectly forged papers. He and Borchert had discussed at length what would happen if she found out who he really was, a lawyer on the run with a child abducted from a hospital. Borchert thought it could only be all to the good. As a criminal, he would be one of them. In the end, however, the whole discussion had been pointless. If they were to proceed according to plan, they simply didn’t have time to fabricate a new ID in any case.

  ‘And your underpants.’

  The woman pointed to his nether regions. He slipped off his pants and turned on the spot in front of her, stark naked. She nodded, then opened the faux leather handbag on her lap and brought out a small black rod.

  ‘OK,’ she muttered after running the metal detector over him like an airport security guard. She repeated the procedure with his clothes, which were lying in a heap on the table in front of her. Stern had quickly bought an off-the-peg suit, shirt and underpants in a crowded shopping centre half an hour before. He had probably been caught on a dozen CCTV cameras, but that was a risk they’d had to take. He could hardly turn up in a football strip if he wanted to pass for a father eager to sell his own son to sexual perverts.

  ‘All right,’ she said without returning his clothes, ‘you can sit down again.’

  He shrugged. The chair’s wooden seat felt cold against his bare bottom.

  ‘Where’s the bed?’ she asked, her eyes on his hairy chest. He felt disgusted with himself when the cold made his nipples harden. The thought that she might construe it as a sign of sexual arousal made him feel sick.

  ‘It’s outside.’

  She followed the direction of his gaze. The lower half of the brownish window pane was covered by a lace curtain. It had stopped raining in the last few hours, and the setting sun was bathing the square in pleasant, autumnal shades of red. A man and a woman were walking across it, each with a dog on a lead. They were clearly enjoying their evening stroll. Although the wind had dropped, it still sent dead leaves dancing around their feet.

  But Stern was blind to the beauty of the scene. The square seemed to darken before his eyes as he looked across at the parked car in which Simon was awaiting his signal.

  7

  Two years ago, on the eve of his first MRI scan, Simon had discovered a two-volume encyclopedia at the children’s home. He took the first volume from the rickety bookcase in the communal dining room and carried it up to his dormitory.

  Fascinated by the information it contained about the Arctic and astronomy, he resolved before going to sleep that he would learn the meaning of one new word every day from then on, proceeding alphabetically from A to Z.

  So he wasn’t sad, angry or depressed the next morning, when Professor Müller summoned him to his office at the Seehaus Clinic, having previously spoken to the matron of the children’s home. He was mainly disappointed to be told the meaning of words like ‘cerebral’ and ‘tumour’ before he could learn them for himself.

  Today he had learned a new word: paedophile. Robert hadn’t wanted to repeat it at first. It had slipped out when he was explaining what was going to happen.

  Always stay close to me. Don’t budge from my side. And no matter what happens, take your instructions from me, nobody else, understand?

  Stern’s admonitions were still ringing in Simon’s ears as he opened the car door.

  Do everything I tell you, and don’t speak to the people we’re going to meet, you hear? They’re paedophiles – bad people. They may smile – they may try to shake hands or touch you, but you mustn’t let them.

  Stern gave him another wave from the window and he promptly got out. The lawyer was looking sad, his expression like that of those who heard of Simon’s illness for the first time. Simon would have liked to tell him not to worry. Today was a good day, actually – only a 3 on his wellness scale. No pain, only slight nausea, and the numbness in his left hand had also diminished. But as usual after a fit, he was feeling very, very tired. He’d dozed off several times on the way here.

  Carina, who didn’t want to let him go at first, had protested fiercely when Borchert turned up at Sophie’s house to collect them both. They and the twins had been watching a cartoon when he knocked on the back door. Then he and Carina had gone into the next room. Simon had only been able to hear snatches of what was said, thanks to the little girls’ giggles and the film music.

  ‘… our only chance … No, he’ll only have to put in an appearance … Don’t worry … there’s no danger, I give you my word …’

  Carina eventually hurried back into the room, scowling, and helped him on with his cord jacket. On the way Borchert had dropped her at the spot where she’d parked her VW Golf and they’d driven here in two cars. They had now pulled up in this handsome square, where Stern, whom Simon was pleased to see again, had given him the prearranged signal.

  ‘Bye, Carina,’ he wanted to say before setting off, but Stern had expressly forbidden this.

  Don’t look back or say
goodbye.

  Looking straight ahead, Simon walked to the door of the Madison and pushed it open with his shoulder, then made his way into the gloomy interior.

  The only light in the place was over a table in the far corner. Stern, who had left the window and was standing there, looked rather odd. His hair was tousled, the jacket of his new suit unbuttoned, and his shirt was hanging out of his trousers. He looked as if he’d been in a fight, but it couldn’t have been with the weird woman in sunglasses, who had also turned to face Simon. Her costume was uncreased and every hair on her head gleamed as if it had been individually brushed and combed.

  Simon stumbled just before he got to the table. Looking down, he saw that the laces of one of his trainers had come untied. He felt a bit dizzy when he bent down to retie them, but he could hear the strange woman’s voice loud and clear.

  ‘All right, young man, let’s have a look at you.’

  He had to push himself up off the floor with both hands in order to regain his feet, but he forgot his tiredness when the woman came and stood right in front of him – in fact he almost burst out laughing. Not only was she wearing dark-brown lipstick, but she reminded him of a skydiver he’d seen on television. The skin over her prominent cheekbones looked as if it was being forced backwards by the wind.

  ‘How old are you?’ she asked. Her breath smelled of stale cigarette smoke.

  ‘Ten. Just had my birthday.’ Simon bit his tongue and glanced apprehensively at Stern.

  He told me not to say anything.

  To Simon’s relief, Stern didn’t look annoyed.

  ‘Good. Excellent.’

  The woman had suddenly produced a black metal rod. Quick as lightning, Stern gripped her arm.

  ‘He won’t have to—’

  ‘No, no.’ The woman gave a sly smile. ‘He won’t have to take his clothes off. Not until my husband joins us. We’ll reserve that treat for later.’

  Simon couldn’t understand why she was running the metal rod over him, or why he had to put on a funny blindfold that prevented him from seeing a thing, but he did so when Robert showed him how. He wasn’t afraid. Not as long as he was with his lawyer. Strangely enough, Stern seemed far more scared than he was.

  But what of? Nothing bad can happen as long as we stay together.

  So he squeezed Stern’s hand really hard, more to reassure the lawyer than himself as the woman led them out of the back entrance and into a yard. The car they got into smelled nice and new. The hand in Simon’s began to tremble when they drove off, but he put that down to the engine’s faint vibrations.

  8

  ‘Are you on their tail?’

  ‘Yes, I’m right behind them.’ Borchert heard Carina sink back in her seat with a sigh of relief. He’d been expecting her to call him sooner, having given her this number for emergencies. The prepaid card wasn’t in his name and the police would find it hard to trace. Unlike Carina’s mobile, so he kept the call as brief as possible.

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Just passing the petrol station on Potsdamer Chaussee.’

  ‘Shall I follow you?’ she asked.

  ‘No.’ That was quite out of the question. Splitting up into two cars had purely been a safety measure. As expected, the ‘goods’ had left by way of the rear entrance, which Borchert had been covering in the Corolla. Carina had kept watch on the front of the building in her own car. The risk of being spotted would dramatically increase if she didn’t leave her Golf where it was.

  ‘We should have nabbed her inside the café and—’

  ‘No,’ Borchert cut in sharply. They’d already been talking too long for his liking. He didn’t want to intervene until the husband showed his face. The wife might only be a messenger – she mightn’t be in possession of any information at all.

  He hung up and concentrated on not losing sight of the American saloon with the grey curtain over the rear window. Like him, the woman was strictly adhering to the speed limit.

  Borchert felt for the gun in his trousers. The very touch of the automatic galvanized him. He heard the blood pounding in his ears and relished his sense of anticipation. Going the whole hog, no holds barred … Most people used such expressions without grasping their true significance – without ever experiencing what he did. Borchert grinned and depressed the gas pedal a little to make the lights at Wannsee S-Bahn station. More and more adrenalin flooded his body as the car accelerated. He would show those sick bastards. He might not be able to say, afterwards, how the blood and splintered bone had got on to his sweatshirt – that often happened when he blew a fuse – but he wouldn’t care. Just as long as those perverts got what they—

  Huh?

  Borchert’s mental combat preparations were abruptly cut short. He floored the gas pedal, but to no avail. The pounding in his ears died away and the engine’s silence became more apparent. The drivers behind him pulled out, horns blaring angrily, when they noticed he wasn’t accelerating.

  Sweating, Borchert turned the ignition key. Once, twice. At Harry’s place the damned thing had caught at the third attempt, but now it wouldn’t even hiccup. As the car ahead of him pulled away, the Corolla coasted slowly to a stop in the middle of the intersection.

  He reached for his mobile, meaning to call Carina and ask if there was some secret knack of getting the old crock going again. Then it occurred to him that she couldn’t help. The car belonged to Stern’s ex-wife and he didn’t have Sophie’s number.

  What now? Borchert started to sweat even more profusely. He could just see the other car’s tail lights as he jumped out and went to open the bonnet. Another four seconds, and the car disappeared from his field of vision somewhere on the road between Wannsee and Potsdam.

  Borchert still hadn’t identified the problem five minutes later, but that was beside the point. He didn’t care about the traffic jam he was inflicting on Sunday motorists, nor did he take any notice of his mobile, which had already registered three calls from Carina.

  He was wholly and exclusively preoccupied with working out what to say to the traffic cop who had just asked to see his papers.

  9

  The ambient sounds changed before the car finally came to rest. The engine noise grew louder, suggesting that they had entered a confined space. At the same time, Stern felt as if his eyes had been swathed in another blindfold.

  He had tried to count the bends, but the car’s numerous changes of lane had rendered that impossible. His built-in clock had failed too. By the time the blindfold was removed and he saw the garage in which they were standing, he couldn’t have said whether they’d been driving for ten minutes or an hour.

  ‘Everything OK?’ he asked Simon, careful not to sound too friendly. He had an act to keep up, after all. The boy nodded and rubbed his eyes, which were only slowly accustoming themselves to the light of the halogen spots above their heads.

  ‘This way, please.’

  The woman had gone on ahead and opened a grey fire door. Beyond it was a flight of stairs. The veining of the shiny marble treads resembled caramelized vanilla ice cream.

  ‘Where are we going?’ Stern asked. He coughed. They hadn’t exchanged a word throughout the drive and his throat was dry with excitement. Fear, too.

  ‘The main house is directly accessible from the garage,’ said the woman, climbing the stairs ahead of them. Sure enough, they came out in a parquet-floored entrance hall bathed in artificial light. It reminded Stern of his own hall, except that his was bare of furniture and certainly had no amaryllis plants standing around in pots. He only hoped Borchert would manage to force an entry somehow. He would need his gun or the crowbar from the boot – probably both, if he was going to overcome the heavy, brass-bound front door. The windows were secured on the outside with burglar-proof aluminium roller shutters – all the windows, as far as Stern could tell, even those in the living room, into which he and Simon were now ushered.

  ‘Please sit down. My husband won’t be long.’

  Stern shepherded
Simon over to a white leather sofa. Meanwhile, the woman made her way to a small bureau with some drinks and nibbles on it, tittuping rather awkwardly on the soles of her high-heeled shoes.

  Puzzled by her peculiar way of walking, Stern thought at first that she was trying not to make a noise. It was only when she was fixing herself a gin and tonic that the penny dropped: she didn’t want her stilettos to mark the freshly waxed parquet. This house was unoccupied. They were in a luxuriously renovated but still unlet show house, nicely furnished but devoid of any personal touches. Surveying the room, Stern could recognize the signs quite clearly: the portable telephone on the desk; the leather-bound volumes neatly arrayed in a half-empty bookcase; the brand-new leather sofa on which only a handful of potential purchasers had hitherto sat while being shown the ground plan of the property by the estate agent. Stern would have bet a fortune on the woman’s husband being the same estate agent who had the Mexikoplatz café on his books.

  ‘May I offer you something?’

  He shook his head. All that he possessed in the way of grey matter was churning around in his skull. It was a perfect set-up. The couple’s method was pathologically brilliant. There was nothing here that a victim could remember later. Nothing of value that couldn’t be replaced if soiled with blood or body fluids. And no one would be surprised if the whole house underwent thorough cleaning before being handed over to its new owners, who would naturally have no inkling of what had gone on in the rooms in which they looked forward to spending a happy future.

  It sickened Stern to realize how well the bogus backdrop of this house symbolized the whole situation in which he’d been embroiled for the last few days. Everything seemed so theatrical: Simon’s inexplicable knowledge of murders in the past and his absurd intention of committing one in the future; the voice on the DVD that hinted his son might still be alive; and the obscure paedophile connection between the two dramatic incidents in which he had involuntarily played a leading role.