The sudden grim intuition she’d had as she left the station had cleared her head; she saw everything plainly now. Her doubts were gone; she knew all there was to know.
When her phone rang, over and over, relentlessly, she ignored it. She must act alone now.
Norah went into the bistro on the corner of her street and saw that there was only one customer left, a man at the bar, nursing what looked like a last beer. The barman glared at her as if to say: Did you have to come now, just as I was about to put the chairs on the tables?
‘Just a quick vodka,’ she said.
He nodded, without smiling and set the glass down in front of her. Norah tipped it back; the alcohol stung her parched throat. She swallowed drily, as if to see whether her stomach would take it. Then she fished a note out of her jeans pocket, put it on the counter, thanked the barman and went out.
As Norah climbed the stairs to her flat, she thought of Valerie. She thought of Arthur Grimm and all that Angelika Reiter had told her about him.
Her anger contracted like a mollusc.
She saw herself pointing a gun at Grimm. She saw the terror on his face.
And where, only a few hours earlier, there had been fear and uncertainty, there was now certainty and hate.
When Norah entered the kitchen, there was a revolver lying on the table. For a split second, she thought it must be the same gun as before, returned to her as if by magic—as if attracted, magnet-like, by the mere force of her hatred. Actually, of course, it was only a twin of the gun she had thrown in the canal. Somebody must have brought it round while she was out.
That figured.
Norah stepped closer. Peered at the gun. Picked it up and examined it. There was only one cartridge in the cylinder. She’d have to aim well. But she knew she could.
First, though, she needed proof. Norah put the gun back on the table and went to sit at her laptop. It didn’t take her five minutes to find out what she wanted to know. She sat there, stunned. It was so easy, when you knew what you were looking for.
It was exactly as she’d thought.
The bastard.
Norah picked up her phone and saw that she had six missed calls from Coco and two from Max. She closed her eyes for a moment; there was so much to do, so much to sort out. She tried Tanja first. Then she rang Coco, who needed comforting. After that, she spoke to Max. Finally, she made one last call.
When she got off the phone, she had a good, long think. It took her some time to get everything straight in her mind and overcome her resistance. It was suddenly all so final; every action seemed like a ritual. Animal blood, candlelight, white robes.
Norah climbed the stairs to Theresa’s and rang the doorbell.
‘I’ve come to say goodbye,’ she said when Theresa opened up, her eyes red and glazed as if she’d been asleep.
When everything had been taken care of, she sat down at the living-room table with her phone and tried to calm herself. Talking to Theresa and processing what she had said had left Norah exhausted. But now all was ready.
She couldn’t quite believe that it had been so easy. Grimm would come to the Prater and she would get her chance. She had only to be prepared. There was no turning back now.
In front of her lay a loaded gun. Before twenty-four hours were up, she would have used that gun to shoot somebody.
With good reason and of her own free will.
53
After nights of exile on the sofa, Norah had slept in her bed again, the gun beside her. She knew as soon as she opened her eyes. Today was the day.
She looked at her watch—a little before nine. The eleventh. A dark, wet February morning in Vienna. She went into the kitchen for a glass of water, surprised at how calm she was. No more trembling fingers. She longed for the evening to come. She knew what she had to do. The night before, she had prepared everything and then sunk into a dreamless sleep. There would be no sleep tonight. Norah drank another glass of water. When it was empty, she saw that the orchid she had brought from Berlin had wilted.
She decided to have coffee in the corner bistro. On the way there she saw the young woman who had once given her a caramel—Marie. She was standing in a doorway on the other side of the road, talking into her phone and crying. Norah averted her eyes.
The three old ladies were at their usual table and nodded at Norah when she walked in. She ordered a cappuccino and a croissant. When she’d finished eating and drinking, she glanced up and saw that the clock above the door had stopped. Like a watch that stops when somebody dies, Norah thought.
Back in her flat it was, at last, time for Norah to make final arrangements. First she rang Max.
‘Hello,’ he said.
‘Morning. All well with you?’
‘Sure. And you? Today’s the big day.’
As if she didn’t know.
‘Are you still on for this evening?’ Max asked. ‘Still up for hunkering down together? We could get in some food from the Thai restaurant you like. I’ve already bought the wine.’
‘That’s why I’m calling,’ Norah said. ‘I’m not feeling great. I think I might be coming down with something.’
There was a moment’s silence.
‘You’re not just saying that so that you can slope off to the Prater this evening, are you?’
‘Have I ever lied to you?’ Norah asked.
‘No, I don’t think you have,’ said Max. ‘Have you seen a doctor?’
‘No, but I really don’t think it’s necessary. I just need to sleep it off.’
‘It’s probably the stress of the last few weeks,’ Max said, sounding worried. ‘Do you need anything? Is there anything we can bring you?’
‘No, I’m okay. The fridge is full; I won’t need to go out today. I have a feeling I’ll sleep all day anyway.’
‘Have you got a temperature?’
Norah almost smiled. Max always had loved looking after people. When they were students, he was the one who had held her hair out of her face when she got home so drunk or stoned that she had to throw up; he was the one who’d made sure she ate properly and lectured her when she confessed to having had unprotected sex. He’d make a great dad one of these days—though his mothering did get her down sometimes.
‘I don’t know. I just feel really knackered and weak. Maybe I ate something funny in Salzburg—I don’t know,’ Norah groaned. ‘But you’ve no need to come round this evening. I’m not exactly good company and I wouldn’t want to give you anything.’
‘But it’s February 11,’ Max said. ‘I really don’t want you to be alone this evening.’
‘That’s very sweet of you,’ said Norah, ‘but don’t worry, I’m not going anywhere; I’ll stay in and sleep it off. We’ll make up for it some other time, okay?’
‘All right then,’ Max said. ‘If you say so. But you’re to get in touch if you need anything, okay?’
Norah’s heart was suddenly heavy when she realised that this was probably the last time she would speak so freely to her best friend. Maybe even the last time she’d speak to him altogether. She almost said something sentimental, but then the game would have been up. So she just said, ‘Okay!’ and hung up.
Sandra was trickier, but Norah had expected that. On the other hand, she found it easier to lie to her than to Max—maybe she was getting into her stride.
‘I’ll be asleep all day anyway,’ Norah said, hoping her voice sounded weak and rasping.
‘I don’t care—you’re not to be alone,’ Sandra said. ‘And if Max and Paul think they can shirk their responsibility, then I’m coming round.’ ‘That’s ridiculous.’
‘Stopping my best friend from doing something stupid is ridiculous?’ Sandra asked brusquely.
‘What do you mean—something stupid?’ Norah asked, feeling foolish because they both knew what Sandra meant.
She sighed.
‘Okay,’ she said, ‘I know what you’re thinking.’
She searched for the right words.
‘But it’
s all over,’ she lied. ‘You’re right. Grimm is innocent.’
She took a sip of water.
‘I expect it’s the stress coming to an end; all I want to do is sleep. I don’t want to see anyone or talk to anyone; I just want to leave all this stuff behind me. I’m tired.’
‘You sound tired,’ Sandra said.
‘Believe me,’ said Norah, ‘the last place I want to be this evening is the fucking Prater.’
Sandra had, eventually, been persuaded that Norah was all right. There was a ring at the door just as Norah put the phone down. The man—forty-odd, thick-lashed blue eyes, Britpop hairstyle—declined to come in, which was probably, she thought, for the best. Just because he’d been recommended to her, didn’t mean she wanted him in her flat. He was unassuming—a little taller than her, dressed in black jeans and a blue denim jacket too thin for the time of year. He took a small packet out of his rucksack and held it out to Norah without a word. She took it, handing him in exchange the envelope she had ready. He glanced inside, nodded and vanished silently down the stairs. Soon afterwards, Norah heard the front door swing shut.
She unwrapped the little box of ammunition at the kitchen table and loaded the old-fashioned revolver. She’d decided that a single bullet wouldn’t be enough. When everything was ready, she sat down at the window with a cup of coffee and a packet of cigarettes and waited for darkness to fall.
54
Norah looked at the gun that lay loaded on the kitchen table. Soon she would put it in her handbag and set off for the Prater to put an end to things.
She had to. But she wasn’t ready yet.
She felt a sudden surge of longing for Alex, a fierce ache between her throat and her breastbone, as if something had been torn from its ligaments and flung against the inside of her ribs. Lying in front of her on the table, her phone suddenly seemed no less dangerous than the loaded revolver beside it. For three years, she had talked to Alex about everything. Everything. How could it all be over from one day to the next? How was it possible that what was happening to her was happening—that she was planning what she was planning—and hadn’t told Alex? Alex would have listened to her; Alex would have believed her, right from the start. Why hadn’t she talked to him?
Because you screwed up, Norah.
Suddenly she had the phone in her hand and was calling Alex’s number. It rang. And rang.
She jumped when she heard his voice—closed her eyes for a second.
‘Hi, this is Alex.’
Then she realised: it was only his voicemail.
‘I can’t take your call right now, but I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.’
A beep.
‘Hey,’ she said. ‘It’s me.’
Her mouth was dry.
‘Norah,’ she added, realising that a little more was needed, now that they’d split up.
‘Hey, I just wanted to say…’
She hesitated.
‘I just wanted to say I’m sorry.’
She stopped and would have liked to say something else, but couldn’t find the right words and hung up. She pushed the phone away from her and buried her face in her hands, suddenly realising that she had just said goodbye to Alex. ‘Fuck it,’ she muttered, reaching for her phone again.
I love you, she typed.
It was only as she wrote the words that she knew how much she meant them. Her finger hovered over the screen. Then she pressed Send. Even before she could put the phone down, the icon under the message switched from Sent to Read and her heart leapt to her throat. She stared at her phone for seconds—minutes, even—waiting for a reply. But there was no reply. What had she expected? Norah pushed the phone away again, took a deep breath and waited for the surge of adrenaline to subside.
She looked about her in the cold, empty flat. Cardboard boxes, dust, loneliness. But after sitting quietly for a while, Norah began to hear the music her flat was playing to her. It started softly, almost tentatively, but as she listened more closely, it seemed to surge and swell. The soft creak of the floorboards, the hum of the fridge, the steady trickle of dust, as slow as a glacier, the muffled sounds of the street coming in at the windows. Life.
It had been dark for hours. Norah got up, put the gun in her bag and pulled on her shoes and parka. Her phone buzzed. Her hands trembled as she reached for it, but it wasn’t Alex. It was the unknown number.
The Prater, in an hour’s time. He’ll be there. Please come. For Valerie’s sake.
Norah almost laughed. Did the anonymous texter really think she needed reminding?
She went into the bathroom and looked in the mirror. She put on red lipstick, applying it like war paint. Then she took her bag with the gun in it and left the flat. The taxi she had ordered that afternoon was waiting for her outside.
From the back of the cab she saw more of the garish posters; they seemed to have spread through the city like metastases. The background was painfully pink and the big black letters asked Norah the same question, over and over.
ARE YOU SURE?
Norah thought of all the stories that had kept her from sleeping over the course of the years. She recited them to herself, conjuring the faces of war criminals, murderers, thugs. She thought of Leonie’s rapist. She thought of the man who had tied his allegedly unfaithful girlfriend to his car in front of the children and dragged her to her death. She thought of all those ordinary bastards who were beating up their wives right now, as she crossed Vienna in a taxi. She thought of the man who had ruined Coco’s life—of all the men who had got off scot-free and would continue to do so. She thought of Arthur Grimm.
‘Yes,’ Norah said softly, ignoring the look the taxi driver gave her in the rear-view mirror. ‘Yes, I’m sure.’
She touched the gun in her bag.
She was ready.
55
There was garbled waltz music coming from somewhere, but Norah couldn’t work out where. The rides were all shut for the night. Was it one of the fruit machines?
Just before she got out at the Prater, Norah had received an email. More compromising material about Grimm who, if the emailer was to be believed, had twice been reported for GBH and once for attempted rape, but had got off on all counts. The attachments contained photos. Norah clicked on a jpg entitled ‘AngelikaReiter1’ and saw a woman with short blonde hair, a bruised face and a bloody, swollen nose, who looked as if she’d been photographed for police records. Her eyes were closed and there was a look of shame on her face. Norah felt the blood shoot to her cheeks, she felt her heart begin to thud, her breath quicken. God, she was furious. And God, it felt great. She mustn’t give up.
Norah had asked the taxi driver to drop her at the back of the Prater, not at the main entrance. The big wheel rose high in the sky and she couldn’t work out whether it was turning extremely slowly or whether she was so overwrought that she was seeing things. She left the road behind her and headed for the fairground. The further she went, the fainter the sounds from the street and the fewer people she saw. At first, she glimpsed the occasional person scurrying along beneath the dark bare trees, but a few minutes from the road she met hardly anyone.
A jogger passed her at the bumper cars, which were shut up for the winter, and a little further on she saw two people out for a walk who seemed to be following her at some distance. Otherwise there wasn’t a soul. The closed rides had something almost surreal about them; deprived of their function, they became spooky, sinister. No shining, flashing, twinkling lights, no announcements, no voices, no shrieking people on the roller-coaster, no children laughing on the big wheel or begging their parents for popcorn or candy floss. And no music—except for the elusive waltz melody that seemed to come from very far away, swelling and fading, swelling and fading.
And suddenly there was nothing. The music had died away altogether; there was nobody far and wide—only Norah and the darkness and, looming in the distance, the big wheel, turning in slow motion. That was where she had to go. To the big wheel. The main entrance
. The place the music was coming from. That was where she would find him—where he was waiting for her.
Norah kept going.
On her right was a deserted swing ride, the swings hanging forlornly, like the branches of a weeping willow, the bright pastel colours almost completely swallowed by the darkness. A metallic screech came from somewhere, a sound as painful and false as in a bad dream. Norah walked on, all her senses alert. She thought of Valerie and Grimm; of the book in her kitchen cupboard and the gun in her bag; of Valerie’s mother and the woman in the photos. She thought of Coco and she knew she wouldn’t turn back now, whatever happened.
The big wheel was coming closer and Norah could hear the music again.
The night was cold and crisp, the stars clearly visible over the dark fairground. The wind whistled round the corners and from somewhere came the distressed sound of a hinge that needed oiling. There was a smell of storm in the air.
Norah had almost reached the open space in front of the big wheel when she suddenly had the feeling that somebody was there. She stopped and looked about her, but could see no one. Then, just as she was about to go on her way, she glanced down.
They were small, barely noticeable in the dim light of a distant lamppost, but now she saw them. The path was littered with dead birds.
ART AND DEATH
I am often asked why I do what I do.
Jörg Immendorff once used the brilliant metaphor of a soup bowl to explain his work as an artist. Imagine that you have a soup dish. You know that it is decorated with a beautiful design, but you can only get to that design by eating up the thick soup filling the dish.
That is exactly what I do. I spoon up the soup because I want to know what the bottom of the dish looks like. I do it over and over again, because each time the design is different. Each time it is a surprise. And each time, although I am old, I am as excited as a child.
There is nothing left to do.
Everything is ready. A starry, painfully cold night in Vienna, the strains of a waltz, and black wings.
The Shadow Page 20
