Back Up

by Paul Colize

The police were quickly on the scene.

  Three similar attacks had taken place in the past month, but this was the first time the gang had opened fire on a victim.

  The police found a gun hidden under the bar. The manager explained that it was used to help pacify aggressive customers, and prevent fights.

  Nothing in the position of Gunther Krombach’s body suggested that he had tried to grab the concealed gun, or shown any resistance.

  In his statement, Paolo Fermi confirmed that the man who had addressed him spoke German without a foreign accent. The other men had said nothing.

  The police found no spent cartridges. The ballistics expert concluded that Gunther Krombach had not been killed by a pump-action shotgun, but by a handgun firing 9-millimetre bullets.

  The attack was the last of the series to occur in Berlin.

  The perpetrators were never questioned.

  88: I HAD BECOME HARMLESS

  My first memory of Dartford is the black-and-white tiled floors of the corridors I walked down, flanked by men in white coats. These brief, return trips were the only time I saw my fellow inmates.

  With my nose to the ground, I would stare at the chequered floor. I thought of chess. I imagined the pieces moving across the board. I anticipated offensives and devised strategic defences. To no avail. The end result was always the same.

  Sometimes I would look up.

  I saw empty-eyed men. One glared at me with real animosity. He was pale, with twisted features. His mouth folded in upon itself. I looked away.

  Others stood motionless in the corridors. They would throw their heads backward and forward or burst into crazed laughter.

  I can still smell the odour that seeped from the walls and under my door. The sweetish reek of excrement mixed with the smell of urine, disinfectant and boiled vegetables. I thought I would get used to it eventually, but the opposite was true: nausea haunted me day and night, though day and night were indistinguishable to me.

  They thought I was dangerous, and kept me in isolation. I was shut in a tiny cell with no furniture other than a bed fitted with straps. There were steel bars at the window.

  My rare waking moments were peopled with nightmares.

  From scraps overheard here and there, I discovered I was in Stone House Hospital in Dartford, in the county of Kent, about sixteen miles from London. One of the oldest and best-known psychiatric hospitals in the United Kingdom. Jacob Levy, a butcher suspected of being Jack the Ripper, had been a resident, and died there from syphilis.

  At the end of the nineteenth century, Dartford was England’s dumping ground. The town was home to leper colonies, hospitals for infectious diseases, gunpowder magazines and asylums. There were many such institutions locally. Darenth Park, a hospital for mentally handicapped children, and Stone House vied with one another for the most sinister reputation.

  Dartford was also the birthplace of the Stones. Keith Richards’ childhood home was just a short distance from my prison.

  Noises came through the walls. Mostly groans. Occasionally, a shriek of terror would ring out. I lay stretched out in the dark. A man would come to my door and tell me to keep quiet.

  They had made me believe I was mad.

  From time to time, sirens would wail, usually a sign that a madman had escaped.

  Panic in the corridors, people running in all directions. The inmates would begin hollering in unison. As if a cat had been let loose in a kennels. Some would destroy anything that came to hand, or hammer their heads against the walls.

  The breakouts never lasted more than a couple of days. They would be found hiding in a park, dead or frozen stiff.

  Each day, each week, each month, men would come to question me. They promised I would be kept in better conditions if I agreed to cooperate. I had no idea what they were talking about.

  One day, the visits stopped, and they took me out of solitary confinement. I had become harmless.

  89: SOME KIND OF THREAT

  Dominique had continued his investigations into the events of the eighteenth of March, 1968, and the murders committed by Michael Stern. He had read through a number of websites in English, dictionary to hand, but found nothing new.

  The shocking discovery had occupied his weekend, but try as he might, his obsessive ruminations threw up no obvious link between Michael Stern and Jacques Bernier. Each hypothesis seemed more improbable than the last.

  On Monday morning, he printed out a sheaf of pages summarising the affair, and headed for the clinic, hoping that on sight of the information, Bernier would be encouraged to tell him more.

  He entered Bernier’s room, cracked a few jokes and began the usual treatments.

  ‘Have you seen the news, Jacques? First Tunisia and Egypt, and now the threat of an uprising in Libya. But knowing Qaddafi, he won’t go quietly.’

  No reaction.

  ‘And the football, Jacques? Do you like football? Standard lost against Ghent, and Westerlo beat Anderlecht, did you see that?’

  Bernier was impassive.

  Dominique continued his massage, detecting a fair degree of tension in the leg muscles.

  His patient was distant, lost in his own inner world.

  Towards the end of the session, Dominique broached the subject he really wanted to discuss.

  ‘I took a look on the Internet, Jacques. I know who Michael Stern is. I know what happened to him. But I don’t understand what that has to do with you. Did you know him, or one of his victims?’

  The question drew no reaction.

  Bernier seemed cut off. His eyes rolled, unfocused. He seemed to be reliving some interminable nightmare.

  Dominique tried another tack, adopting a brighter tone.

  ‘Have you seen the sun? Spring’s come early this year. I’m going to get you into a chair and we’ll take a little walk out in the forest, would you like that? And after that, the pool.’

  He didn’t wait for a reply. Away from his usual surroundings, Bernier might feel more at ease, and agree to answer his questions.

  He called a nurse to help him manoeuvre X Midi into the wheelchair.

  Bernier was still visiting the pool, and receiving verticalisation sessions. He had shown encouraging progress in the first months of treatment, but recently there had been little change. His treatment team described his condition as stationary, perhaps even regressing slightly.

  Dominique headed down the corridors towards the main entrance to the clinic.

  The sun was bright, but it was still cold. He called a nurse, asked her to watch X Midi for a moment and went to the dispensary to fetch some blankets.

  On the way, he met Marie-Anne Perard.

  ‘Morning, Dominique.’

  ‘Good morning, Madame.’

  ‘Where are you hurrying off to?’

  ‘I’m taking X Midi for a walk.’

  The clinic director checked her watch.

  ‘The staff meeting begins in ten minutes. I need you there. Walks are in the afternoons, and it’s too cold to go out.’

  Dominique did not protest. He retraced his steps, reinstalled Bernier in his bed and headed for the conference room.

  Marie-Anne Perard greeted the meeting’s participants and ran through the agenda. To Dominique’s surprise, X Midi’s case was at the top of the list.

  ‘To begin, I’d like to address the case of the patient known to us as X Midi.’

  She paused and looked at Dominique.

  ‘I’m delighted to inform you that Dominique has succeeded in communicating with him.’

  Most present were already aware of the news, but greeted it with applause nonetheless.

  Dominique was embarrassed.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Well done, Dominique, you should be proud.’

  ‘Thanks, everybody.’

  The director continued.

  ‘Dominique has succeeded in creating a climate of trust that encourages communication. With patience and tenacity, he has obtained information that has enabled
us to identify our patient. X Midi’s name is Jacques Bernier. I would ask everyone to address him as such from today, and to update all our files and documents accordingly. We still know relatively little about him. M. Bernier is Belgian, born in 1945. He was reported missing in January 1964. The police have opened an investigation, which will, I hope, enable us to find out more. A call for information appeared in several newspapers this weekend, inviting anyone who knows him to come forward.’

  Dominique cursed himself for forgetting to check the announcement in the press.

  Marie-Anne Perard paused again, and waited for complete silence before announcing her news.

  ‘I’m happy to inform you that the article has already produced results, and that I received a telephone call this morning from England.’

  Dominique flinched in his seat.

  ‘I spoke to the assistant of a Dr Philip Taylor, a psychiatrist and professor in London. He treated Bernier until late summer 2009. He will visit us here tomorrow.’

  Dominique couldn’t be sure why, but he received the news as some kind of threat.

  90: I HAD MET THIS MAN SOMEWHERE BEFORE

  Each day lasted a year, each year passed in the space of a day. In the park, the trees changed colour sometimes. They were my only point of reference.

  I had a bigger bedroom, and furniture was installed in addition to my bed. Three nutters were moved in with me, doubtless in hopes of forcing me to acknowledge I was now one of them.

  Mostly, they kept silent. One of them lay stretched on his bed for hours at a time, staring at the ceiling, a thin line of dribble trickling from his mouth. The other two would come and go. We lived cheek by jowl, but never spoke.

  I came and went, too. I wandered the corridors, staring down at the chequered tiles. I tried to get away from the smell and the shouting. To no avail.

  One of the men in white would appear from time to time. They didn’t question me now, but they would search me and talk amongst themselves as if I didn’t exist.

  There were a great many suicide attempts. Few succeeded. Mostly, people tried to hang themselves with their shoe-laces or a twisted length of sheet.

  I can still see one poor sod, who set himself alight. He had managed to get hold of a big container of white spirit or disinfectant. He poured a fair quantity down his throat, then splashed his face with the rest and set it alight.

  The tragedy occurred in the courtyard, in front of several witnesses, including some visitors. The guy started running around, hollering, his head and the top of his chest consumed in flames.

  Several people tried to catch him, immobilise him and put out the fire.

  All around me, the nutters were going wild. Two or three took advantage of the chaos to try to escape. Sirens wailed. There were scenes of panic. That evening, everyone got a double ration of pills.

  I never heard if the guy had died. I never saw him again.

  From time to time, I heard the slow movements of a symphony coming from some unknown source, a swelling of violins that sparked a feeling of profound anxiety. Apart from these gloomy notes, there was no rock or music of any kind, no radio and no TV at Stone House.

  It was snowing the day he arrived. He was an old man, over sixty. He walked at a snail’s pace, step by step, shaking all over. He made his way along the corridors, inch by inch, staring ahead of him with empty eyes. He stopped at regular intervals to catch his breath.

  I observed his gentle features, the slight smile that played around his lips and the unruly mop of hair sticking up on top of his head.

  Little by little, a face emerged from out of the fog. I had met this man somewhere before.

  91: SEVERAL INDIVIDUALS

  With the exception of Rolling Stone magazine and the New Musical Express, Mary Hunter never read the newspapers. She took no interest in politics or economics, still less in football and the antics of celebrities, splashed across the tabloid newspapers that Londoners loved to read.

  When she reached the Dorchester late in the afternoon, she knew nothing about the shocking events that had occurred in Belfast a few hours before. The pianist greeted her with a copy of the Daily Mail, and asked if the man on the cover wasn’t the journalist who had come to interview her last December?

  The headline took Mary by surprise. Michael Stern’s picture appeared under a headline announcing what had happened. She shuddered, with hindsight, at the thought that she had spent an hour and a half alone in conversation with this seriously unbalanced individual.

  Feverishly, she pored over the article. There was no reference to the investigation for which she had been interviewed.

  For a few moments, she pondered whether she should go to the police, and tell them about his visit. The pianist dissuaded her straightaway. When he asked her what she had discussed with Stern, she merely replied that it was to do with an old story that she was connected with only indirectly.

  If she spoke to the police, he said, she could expect long hours of questioning and a thorough investigation of her private life.

  Mary was living now with Bob Hawkins, the guitarist who had followed her from the beginning. He was consumed with unwholesome jealousy over Jacques Berger. The drummer had forced the group’s split, and made Mary suffer. He had stolen her savings, got into a fight with Gab and fled London, leaving Mary alone. She had become depressed, and stayed that way for weeks. The police came regularly to ask if she had any news of Berger.

  There was no point opening old wounds. She decided not to go to the police.

  Deep down inside, she knew she was still in love with Berger. He was a taciturn, unstable, disturbed character, but he had been an attentive lover. He had always respected her, and treated her with consideration. He was different from the other men she had known.

  She regretted what had happened. At the time, she believed he had left her for good and taken their money with him. She had been in despair, and allowed herself to get dragged along, thinking heroin would help her overcome her distress. She had felt partly responsible for the drama ever since.

  Mary had spent a few weeks trying and hoping to find Jacques. She had contacted people she knew in Paris, Brussels and Berlin, but there was no trace of him.

  Not a day went by when she didn’t hope for some news, or a sign from him. But if he did get in touch, it would bring a whole new set of problems. Jacques Berger was still wanted in connection with his attack on Gab. The Jamaican had survived, but lost the use of one eye.

  Around 10:00p.m., at the end of her set, she left the Dorchester and headed for Soho to meet Bob Hawkins and a few friends in a pub.

  Around midnight, after Mary had failed to show up, Hawkins called the Dorchester. The receptionist confirmed that Mary had left the hotel two hours before. She had seemed tired, had almost lost her voice and hadn’t received her usual warm ovation.

  Hawkins waited until the following morning. Towards noon, he went to the police to report his girlfriend missing.

  Mary Hunter’s body was discovered three days later, on the afternoon of Friday, March the twenty-second, by a team of dockers working at the port of Newhaven on the south coast of England, near Brighton. Her corpse was found aboard a freight train from London.

  The body showed traces of numerous blows, bruises and burns. The medical examiner dispatched to the scene estimated she had been dead about forty-eight hours.

  The police concluded that Mary Hunter had been abducted and incarcerated, before being killed.

  The autopsy revealed a high concentration of heroin in her blood, but few associated molecules. This, combined with the low levels of the substance in her urine, suggested that death had occurred quickly, from an overdose.

  Samples also indicated that she had had sexual intercourse with several individuals.

  92: WHISPERING MY NAME

  I heard what sounded like a cry of pain, a long groan of despair. I listened out. A thin strain of music floated along the corridor.

  I followed it.

  At t
he far end of one dormitory, an old man was huddled on a chair near the window, his eyes turned to the sky. He held a harmonica in both hands. The notes he played were laden with sorrow.

  No one but him could make a harmonica weep that way.

  I moved nearer. He stared at me. He recognised my features. He stood up, still searching my face, and his memory.

  As for me, I had found him.

  Slowly, he opened his arms.

  I knew Sonny cried easily, but I never imagined I would see him sob like a child. He held me in his arms for a long time, whispering my name.

  93: WE NEED TO TALK

  The day after the meeting, Dominique got to the clinic earlier than usual. He wanted to be there when Dr Taylor showed up, and was determined to announce his arrival to Jacques Bernier.

  As soon as he appeared in the entrance, a night nurse hurried to greet him.

  ‘Here already, Dominique? Thank goodness! Mme Desmet is complaining of pains in her legs. She’s asking for you. And M. Bernier is very agitated; he’s running a fever, and hasn’t slept all night.’

  Dominique flashed a smile.

  ‘Thanks, Léna. I’ll take care of it. I’ll go and see Mme Desmet, it won’t take long, and after that, M. Bernier.’

  He took a step back, made of show of examining the nurse from top to toe and sighed.

  ‘You look tired, Léna, you should take some time off.’

  Her turn to smile.

  ‘I’m going to the seaside this weekend. A girlfriend is lending me her apartment in Le Coq. Want to come along?’

  Dominique widened his eyes and pressed a hand to his throat, pretending the offer had taken his breath away.

  ‘Le Coq? This weekend? With you? Why not? Let’s talk later!’

  She came closer, placed her hands on his shoulders, stood on tiptoe and whispered a few words in his ear.

  Dominique laughed out loud.

  ‘Have no fear! I’ll bring a sleeping bag and take the sofa.’