The conversation I’d had with Giesner I could have had with Gerd, only we would have been on first-name terms, and afterwards he would have called me an ass and I would have called him an idiot. Policemen are all the same, interchangeable, templates. They all say the same things. Personally connected. I just can’t get over this. The expression accompanies Hannah and me on our drive home. It has filled the car like the sticky, stale, heavy air, and it’s squashing my skull. None of them believe I ever really knew my daughter. They think I closed my eyes and spent the last thirteen years – perhaps even longer – in a semi-doze, lulled by my love for my girl. But I do know my daughter. I knew her very well.
I sniff noisily and glance in the rear-view mirror. I can only see Hannah’s eyes and her hairline: they could be Lena’s. Right now I could be driving my little Lena to gymnastics or to a friend’s house.
‘Papi,’ the squeaky voice would come from the back seat. ‘Shall we stop quickly and get an ice cream?’
‘Sounds good. Who’s paying?’
‘You are, of course, Papi! I’m still little and I don’t have a job.’
‘Yes, of course, I’d totally forgotten. Okay, Lena. But only because it’s you.’
One day Hannah might ask me the same question: ‘Shall we stop and get an ice cream?’ What I would give to see this day.
‘Shall we have a quick stop at the next services, Hannah?’ I say into the rear-view mirror, a hopeful smile on my lips. ‘It’s still another half an hour’s drive. A short break would be a good idea, what do you think?’
Hannah looks out of the side window, without giving me an answer. Trees and uncultivated fields fly past on either side of the motorway. The weather report was wrong; a sad, grey veil has now covered the sky which was still blue a few hours ago. I wish I could look inside Hannah’s head. I wish I had the courage to ask her what she’s thinking about right now as we tear along the motorway at 130 kph. Whether she finds it frightening or exciting. Whether she’s looking forward to getting home. But it is as it always is when we’re alone. Something inhibits me from asking about the really important things, maybe for fear I’ll upset something.
A BMW that rudely pulls in close to me tears me from my thoughts. A sign to the right announces a service station in five kilometres.
‘Hannah?’ I try again. ‘What do you think? A short stop?’
‘I’d rather go home without a short stop, Grandad.’
‘Okay, that’s fine,’ I say as cheerfully as possible to conceal my disappointment, then mutter unwittingly to myself, ‘Probably a stupid idea anyway. Someone’s bound to whip out their mobile and take the next photo of zombie girl.’
‘What did you say, Grandad?’
‘That you’re absolutely right, Hannah,’ I say louder, smiling at her again in the mirror. ‘Let’s hurry home instead.’ I crane my neck so I can see the whole of Hannah’s face in the mirror. Now she’s smiling too. My little Lena . . .
*
My heart is pounding when I turn our old Volvo into our street, which is in a traffic-calming zone. On either side of the street, separated by neatly trimmed hedges, stand lovingly-cared-for houses, their front doors hung with clay tiles bearing greetings and the name of the family that lives there. Each house has its own little front garden with climbing frames or rose bushes like little islands in the lawn. The perfect environment in which to raise a child.
I steer around the bend that takes the road to its end, and I’ve just caught my breath to tell Hannah that we’re here, when I see them. Around a dozen people on the street outside our house. Half a carpool lining the pavement.
‘What the . . . ?’ I say, bringing the car to a stop.
Behind me Hannah sits up, slides forwards on the seat and clutches the headrest of the passenger seat.
‘What’s wrong, Grandad?’
The mob has spotted our car. Heads turn in unison to the Volvo, which has come to a halt in the middle of the street about twenty metres away from them. My jaw clenches. My shoulders tense. My entire body becomes painfully wooden. My hands are holding the steering wheel so tightly that my knuckles stick out white beneath the skin. I hold my breath.
‘Grandad? Who are all these people?’
My right foot twitches above the accelerator. An idea briefly flashes in my mind: foot down, straight into the crowd, peace at last.
‘Grandad?’ Hannah’s voice has lost some of its usual monotony; she’s almost sounding slightly tearful now. Can’t you see you’re frightening the girl? I want to shout, but then I think of my granddaughter, who doesn’t need any more cause for alarm at the moment. It’s obvious that this bunch of people are all journalists. I can see clipboards and cameras, even a television camera and boom mic. A red-haired woman in a light blue coat breaks away from the pack and takes a few tentative steps towards us.
‘Fucking Rogner,’ I snarl, but Lars Rogner doesn’t appear to be amongst them. Not in person, at least, but I bet he’s sent one of his people. Maybe the woman in the light blue coat who’s approaching our car, slowly but steadily. A few others follow her. Now they’re about ten metres away.
‘Hannah,’ I say as softly as I can. Without taking my eyes off the journalists, I’ve swiftly removed my coat and tossed it behind me. ‘Lie down flat on the back seat and cover yourself with this.’
Hannah doesn’t object and I hear the click of her seat belt. Just to be sure, I glance behind me briefly and see she has actually curled herself up into a bundle beneath my coat. I reach behind and pull the coat up where a few blonde locks are still sticking out above her head. Then I turn back, place my hands on the steering wheel and drive forwards carefully. My heart is in my mouth. I’m almost expecting the mob, now only five metres away, to cluster around the car on every side. In my mind I see the woman in the light blue coat throw herself on to the bonnet while her colleagues shake the car doors and pound at the windows, screaming. But I’m wrong. The crowd parts and even keeps at a safe distance as I drive towards them at walking pace. I have no trouble turning into our property as my right hand takes the small remote control from the centre console and activates the automatic garage door.
‘Stay down, Hannah,’ I say, waiting for the door to close completely behind us before I switch off the engine and find myself able to breathe normally for the first time in what must be minutes.
‘It’s okay.’ I give Hannah the all-clear and lift the coat from her delicate body. ‘We made it.’
Hannah sits up and blinks.
I open my door, get out, then help Hannah out of the car. From the boot I take the small bag they packed with things from the clinic’s clothes bank for her visit. We’ll have to go shopping, tomorrow if we can. I don’t want to see my granddaughter in other people’s shabby clothes.
From the garage we go through a heavy metal door, then up a few steps to the back of the hallway. Karin’s waiting for us there, her face as white as a sheet.
‘Thank God,’ she says with relief in her voice when I push Hannah into the room. An unusually dim light is evidence that Karin has lowered all the roller blinds in the house to protect us from prying eyes. Her knees clicking, she squats right beside Hannah, but keeps her eyes on me. ‘I tried calling your mobile about half a dozen times! How could this happen?’ Her voice is shrill with anxiety. ‘Where are all these people from? How do they know you picked Hannah up today? What are we going to do now?’
‘Just calm down,’ I say, raising my hands aloft to placate her.
‘Calm down? You’ve seen what’s going on outside, haven’t you?’
‘I’m on the case.’
‘What? We can’t even call the police to get them off our backs! Not one of them has put a foot on our property! You know the rules from when they came because of Lena. So long as they’re just hanging round in the street, there’s nothing we can do. That’s public space.’ She puts her arm out a
nd points to the front door. ‘They could quite happily stay there for days undisturbed!’
‘Karin . . .’ I gesture towards Hannah, still standing rigidly and silently beside her.
Karin sighs before finally turning her attention to our grandchild.
‘Hello, Hannah,’ she says with a smile. ‘I’m so happy you’re finally here.’
When Hannah fails to react, Karin looks back up at me, slightly at a loss. I’m about to say something to break the ice when Hannah turns to me. She looks disappointed.
‘But Grandad, I thought we weren’t going to have a stop.’
‘No, we . . .’ I stutter. ‘We’re here, Hannah. We’re at home.’
Hannah pulls a face.
‘But this isn’t my home, Grandad.’
Jasmin
‘I’m sorry I haven’t been able to see you until this late, Frau Grass,’ Dr Hamstedt says, closing the door behind her. Our appointment was for half past eight, but I’ve been sitting waiting for her in her office for a while now. ‘It’s been a busy day,’ she adds with a smile. The psychiatric clinic in Regensburg, run by Maria Hamstedt, is the only one in the area that specialises in children and adolescents. I don’t want to spend any longer thinking about what ‘busy’ means in a place like this, because my mind is immediately filled with images of teenagers flailing and kicking epileptically, their arms wrapped tightly around their bodies in straitjackets. I also hear screams echoing down the clinic’s long corridors, which give me goosebumps.
Smiling back at her, I force out a ‘That’s okay’. But nothing’s okay. The whole situation, the thing with the letters. My little excursion to the psychiatric clinic, the venturing-back-outside, at this time of the evening too, when it’s already dark and the streetlamps cast yellow cones of light which distort everything into long, ghostly shadows. All this presses down on my chest and wrenches at my limbs as if a heavy cold were brewing.
Dr Hamstedt gives me a brief look of suspicion before wandering around her desk to sit down.
‘To be honest, I was surprised when you called me to request this meeting, Frau Grass.’
Just as it surprised Kirsten that I didn’t go on shouting and screaming, refusing to call the therapist. That instead, I was almost zealous in repeatedly calling her number, which was engaged for half a day, until I finally got her on the line and persuaded her to see me today, in spite of how busy she was.
‘Especially,’ Dr Hamstedt continues, folding her hands on the desk and leaning towards me, ‘as you’re no longer being treated by me, but by my colleague Dr Brenner in Schützenstrasse.’
I steal a furtive glance at the door to check that it really is closed. Because sitting out there in the corridor is Kirsten, who accompanied me here. To see – as she thinks – my therapist. But I’ve only met Dr Hamstedt once before. For my psychological anamnesis at Cham hospital right after my escape from the cabin.
‘Yes, I bet. That you were surprised, I mean,’ I say in hushed tones, even though I can’t imagine Kirsten listening at the door. In any case she’s probably got her iPod earphones in or she’s buried in a magazine. Kirsten isn’t very good at doing nothing; she’s got a low threshold for boredom.
Dr Hamstedt appears to be waiting for more, an explanation of why I’ve asked to see her rather than Dr Brenner, and why I sounded so urgent on the phone. Earlier, on the way here, I worked everything out and rehearsed the words in my head. But suddenly they’ve all gone.
Dr Hamstedt leans further forwards.
‘Do you not get on with Dr Brenner?’
I shake my head resolutely. ‘No, no, it’s not that. She’s very nice. I think.’
‘Are you not going to her sessions regularly?’
‘Not that often, no.’
‘You ought to, Frau Grass. It’s important.’
‘I know. It’s just . . .’ I pull my head back and stare at the ceiling. The frayed, brown contours of a water stain up there start fraying even more, become diffuse. Don’t howl, I urge myself. Just don’t start howling again. Not here, not now. I haven’t come here to have Maria Hamstedt poke around my wounds. I’m here because I need information. And her opinion.
‘You find it difficult to talk about what happened to you,’ I hear Dr Hamstedt’s sympathetic voice say.
‘Yes.’
‘Perhaps you even think there’s a reason for you to feel ashamed.’
‘Perhaps.’
A scratching sound makes me flinch. I turn my gaze from the ceiling to Dr Hamstedt, who has pulled a paper tissue from a cardboard box on her desk rather too hastily and is now offering it to me. I take it and wipe my eyes before squaring my shoulders and clearing my throat.
‘Thanks.’
‘I’ve known Dr Brenner for many years, Frau Grass. She’s a terribly good listener. And as far as you’re concerned, you have absolutely no reason to feel ashamed. You are a victim. That’s not something anybody chooses to be.’
‘Yes, that’s what people keep telling me,’ I say with a slightly daft smile, as I think of how to change the subject.
‘And it’s true, Frau Grass,’ Dr Hamstedt replies, giving me an encouraging smile. ‘Nevertheless, if you don’t feel comfortable as Dr Brenner’s patient, obviously I’d be happy to help find you another therapist.’
‘No, it’s not that,’ I say quickly, when I realise that she must think this is the reason for my visit. ‘I don’t need a new therapist. There’s something else I urgently wanted to talk to you about.’
‘Oh, all right then. So, how can I help you, Frau Grass? If this is about how the children’s treatment is going, please remember that medical confidentiality means I cannot discuss anything with you, seeing as you’re not a—’
I shake my head.
‘I need to know whether the children are being let out.’
‘Let out? Are you asking whether they leave the clinic from time to time?’
‘Exactly.’
Dr Hamstedt looks slightly confused.
‘Yes, of course. As you know, we are a psychiatric institution and obviously limited in what we can do as far as general medical examinations are concerned. So the answer to your question is yes. Hannah has been to visit other doctors.’
‘Hannah has been out of the clinic?’
‘To see the dentist and several times to the district clinic, yes. But given the circumstances, she’s in good physical shape, in case you were worried about that.’
‘Hannah has been out of the clinic,’ I repeat to myself, and the picture forms in my mind of the girl spookily wandering the streets on her own, coming to my street, to the building where I live. I see her barefoot, in a white nightie with Fräulein Tinky under her arm. ‘I remember every detail,’ she whispers. Then she adds, ‘For ever and ever and ever.’
‘Not on her own, of course. She’s always been accompanied by a member of staff or her grandfather, who’s been going with her more often recently,’ Dr Hamstedt says, dispelling my vision as if she’d read my thoughts. ‘Why do you ask, Frau Grass?’
Rather than say anything, I start picking the paper tissue in my lap to pieces.
‘Frau Grass?’
Hannah’s grandfather. Your father, Lena. The man shouting beside my bed in hospital.
‘Frau Grass?’
‘What about on her own? I mean, do the patients have a sort of free time here when they can go out unsupervised?’
‘As I said, Frau Grass, this is a psychiatric institution for minors. Obviously we can’t allow most of our inpatients to wander around outside unsupervised.’
‘Not even in the grounds?’
‘No, of course not,’ Dr Hamstedt says very definitely.
‘And it’s not possible for someone to slip outside unnoticed?’
Dr Hamstedt sighs and says very clearly, ‘No, Frau Grass, that’s absolutely imp
ossible. May I ask what this is about?’
I’d intended to tell her about the letters. I’ve even got them on me, in my handbag, which is on the floor beside the chair. Suddenly, however, I’m no longer sure it’s a good idea. What if she reacts like Kirsten did? You’re not well. You need help. I think of the rooms where the handles can be removed with a flick of the wrist. For your own security, Frau Grass. I swallow hard; my throat feels sore. I imagine nobody would be quicker to commit me to this psychiatric clinic than its director, who’s looking at me expectantly.
‘Frau Grass?’
‘Erm . . .’
I now feel really stupid for not having combed my hair, let alone changed my tracksuit bottoms and stained, sweaty top before coming here. Everything about me must be screaming cause for concern! As if on cue, a greasy hair falls down my forehead. I hastily sweep it back.
‘Listen, Frau Grass. Medical confidentiality extends to this conversation here,’ Dr Hamstedt says, and I’m receptive to her deep, velvety voice and sincere expression. ‘So, if there’s anything you want to get off your chest . . .’ The rest of her sentence, her invitation, hangs in the air and I take a deep breath.
‘Someone’s been sending me letters,’ I begin circumspectly as I watch for the tiniest changes in Dr Hamstedt’s facial features. For narrowed lips, raised eyebrows or a wrinkled nose. ‘And, well, I know this must sound silly, but I was wondering whether they might be from the children.’
‘The letters?’
I nod.
‘What’s in them?’
So far I can’t detect anything in her features to alarm me, so I bend down and take the two envelopes from the side pocket of my handbag.
‘For Lena,’ Dr Hamstedt reads out loud, then, ‘Tell the truth. What does that mean, Frau Grass? And what makes you think they could be from the children?’
‘Because they must hate me after everything I’ve done. They can’t do anything but hate me. Especially Jonathan.’
Now I do notice a change in Dr Hamstedt’s features: her eyebrows, which have shot up her forehead. Fortunately I detect honest surprise in this expression rather than doubt towards me.
Dear Child: The twisty thriller that starts where others end Page 20
