“You’re Britta’s landlord’s son,” she said in stunned shock.
“The one with the brother who had an accident.”
“Bingo.” He sounded almost cheerful. “It was great fun talking to you on the phone,” he added, while Sophie ran through possible plans of action in her head.
She had no way of escaping. She thought of the kitchen knife in the drawer, but it was too far away, and then of the pepper spray in her handbag — but the bag was hanging on a hook at the front door.
“I’m afraid the car crash story wasn’t true,” the man added.
“Don’t hold it against me. I thought it was a nice touch.”
He smiled at his own ingenuity, then all amusement drained from his face.
“Come on,” he said. “We’re going to the bathroom. You lead the way.”
Sophie didn’t move.
“Why did you do it? Why Britta?” she asked.
“Why Britta?” the man repeated, and pretended to ponder the question for a moment. “That’s a good question — why Britta? To be perfectly honest with you, I don’t know the answer. Can any of us say why we find one person attractive and another repulsive? Do any of us really know why we do what we do?”
He gave a shrug.
“Any more questions?” he asked sarcastically. Sophie swallowed.
“What were you doing in the car park the other night? Were you following me?” she asked. Gain time, no matter how little.
“What car park?” the man asked. “I’ve no idea what you’re talking about. Now, enough mucking around. Get in the bathroom.”
Sophie’s throat tightened. “What are we going to do in there?” she croaked.
“You couldn’t handle your sister’s death. Tomorrow they’ll find you in the bath. You just couldn’t carry on. Everybody will understand.” And then, more impatiently: “Hurry up.”
But Sophie couldn’t move. She’d always made fun of the way people in horror films simply stand there when they’re threatened, instead of doing something. Like lambs to the slaughter. But she too was rooted to the spot. Then she came out of her stupor and screamed as loud as she could.
In a split second the man was on her, pressing a hand over her mouth.
“One more scream and it’ll all be over, here and now. Do you understand?”
Sophie let out a gasp.
“Nod if you understand.” She nodded.
The man let go of her. “Now get in the bathroom,” he said, raising the knife menacingly.
Sophie’s body began to obey her again. She set off with shaky steps, feverishly racking her brain. To get to the bathroom, they’d have to walk down the long cluttered hall in the direction of the front door. She took a step or two out of the kitchen; she could sense the man with the knife following her. Paul’s removal boxes lined the way. “Winter things” it said on one box, “DVDs” on the next. Sophie took another step, and then another, past “Books” and “Shoes.” The front door was getting closer but it still felt infinitely distant, down there at the end of the hall. Another step. She wouldn’t make it. But perhaps…
It would only take a second — a short moment of distraction. Another step. But the murderer wasn’t taking his eyes off her; she could sense him behind her, alert. Three or four more steps to the bathroom, and then it would all be over. Two more steps. “CDs,” “Misc.” One more step…
When Sophie reached the door, she could see the man from the corner of her eye, knife raised, and she was about to push down the door handle, when the bell rang, long and shrill. The man glanced toward the door, momentarily distracted, and she took her chance, tearing Paul’s golf club out of the removal box and wielding it above her head.
27
Eleven years is a long time. When I wake up at night and stare at my bedroom ceiling, I sometimes wonder whether I’ve dreamt the world out there. Maybe this world isn’t really my world; maybe it’s the only one there is. Maybe I should only believe in the things I can see and touch. Maybe I made up all the rest. After all, I’ve always made up stories. I remember doing it.
I imagine that this is all there is — my house, the world. I imagine that there is nowhere else for me to go; that I will grow old and die here. That I will somehow have children here, children who are born into my world and know nothing but the ground floor and the first floor, the attic and the cellar, the balconies and the terraces. I imagine myself telling them fairy tales, in which marvelous things happen, tales teeming with wonders and fabulous beings.
“There is a country,” I will say, “where there are enormous great trees.” “What are trees?” they will ask, and I’ll tell them that trees are magical things that grow up, up, up out of the ground, when you bury tiny seeds in the earth — wondrous things that look different in every season, and change as if by magic, putting out blossoms, or green or colored leaves. “And there aren’t just trees in this country; there are feathered creatures too, big ones and little ones, that sit in the trees and sing songs in a foreign language. And there are enormous creatures, the size of our house, that live under the water and spew fountains as high as a steeple. And there are mountains and fields and deserts and meadows.”
“What are meadows, Mummy?” my children will ask.
“Meadows are great tracts of land, very green and very soft, and covered all over with grass — cheeky stalks that tickle children’s legs as they skip across them. They are so big that you can run until you’re quite out of breath without getting anywhere near the edge.”
“But they can’t be that big, Mummy,” one of my children will say. “No, Mummy, they can’t be that big. Nothing’s as big as that.”
When I think of the world out there, I am overwhelmed by infinite longing. It is a feeling I know well; I have felt it while writing, on the running machine and in my dreams — even when talking to Lenzen.
I want to stand on a market square in a small town, and I want to look up into the summer sky, shade my eyes from the sun and watch the breakneck maneuvers of the swifts as they race around the church tower. I want the smell of wood and resin on a forest ramble. I want the distinctive movement of a butterfly — that blithe aimlessness. I want the cool feeling you get on your sun-warmed skin, when a small cloud thrusts itself in front of the summer sun. I want the slimy feeling of waterweed tickling your calves when you’re swimming in a lake. And I think: I can have those things again.
Yes, I am afraid. But if there’s one thing I’ve learned over the past weeks and months, it’s that fear is no reason for inaction. On the contrary.
I have to return to the real world. I’m going to be free. Then I’ll deal with Lenzen.
30
JONAS
Superintendent Jonas Weber stood at his office window watching the last of the swifts as they played in the sky. It wouldn’t be long until they too left for the south.
He’d had to get a grip after receiving Sophie’s text. He had stepped on the accelerator, sped through town and arrived even before his colleagues in the patrol car, whom he’d alerted on his way. He’d run the last few meters to Sophie’s flat and leaned on the bell, forcing himself to keep calm when no one opened up. He’d rung the neighbors’ bells until a furious old lady let him into the building — it’s okay, it’s the police — and he’d run up the stairs, pounded at the door and been on the point of forcing an entry, when it had swung open.
Jonas tried not to think of that terrible moment when he hadn’t been sure whether he’d got there in time.
Sophie had opened the door to him, white as a sheet, but calm. With relief, he had registered that she was unhurt. Then he’d seen the man lying dead or injured on the floor. He had felt for his pulse and established that he was still alive, then called an ambulance. His colleagues had arrived, the ambulance had come, and everyone had set to work. It had turned out all right, after all.