Cut

by Marc Raabe

  There was a man standing between the thighs of the young woman on the altar, right in front of her dark vagina. The hairy triangle pointed at him, or rather, at his penis, which peeked out between the fabric edges of the cloak like a limp sausage.

  The woman – or was it a girl? – laughed and arched her back, so that her hand touched the man’s penis. The man’s mouth twitched below the mask, which only covered half of his face. There was something he didn’t like. He hit the woman’s hand away and then, very quickly, he slapped her twice across the face, left and right. It was a gesture Gabriel recognised, as he’d already received several from his father, just not like that.

  The man seemed to like it more.

  He tore the woman’s mask from her face. Grinned. His left hand grabbed her by the throat and the other slapped her breasts with all his strength.

  It hurt her, he saw that immediately. It all hurt her. And then she couldn’t breathe any more. The colour on the video flickered and faded, but her face still seemed to turn red, then she began to cry, and then turn blue. She flailed her arms around. The man’s penis was no longer in her hand, but it was now long and hard and he pushed it into her, in and out, in . . .

  Suddenly, the girl reared up. Her arms flailed, she reached for his face and tore off his mask.

  The man looked like a pop star. Or an actor. Young, very young, and beautiful like in a magazine. And the man grinned tauntingly, breathless, like the stars on the red carpet or on stage.

  Gabriel saw this face for just one or two seconds and then one of the other masked figures grabbed the man and pulled him aside like a mischievous dog.

  The boy fought back with all his might and tore the masks off of a few of the others. The men were strangely panicked, holding their hands in front of their faces or hiding behind their cloaks. They looked like a group of vulnerable children. Their naked bodies shone grotesquely, their limp members swinging frantically back and forth.

  The boy wasn’t strong enough. One of the men kicked him in the testicles and he doubled over in pain. Two others grabbed him and held him down. He gave up, apparently exhausted.

  All movement in the room had stopped and then suddenly, the boy broke free and reached for a table full of plates, dishes and food. Like a snake, he whipped through the room to the girl and rammed something shiny between her legs.

  He had never seen a face like the girl’s in that moment. And never an expression like the young man’s. He was sure that he would never forget those two faces. Just as he wouldn’t forget the cut.

  The boy pulled the shiny thing that he had rammed into her black triangle upwards through her abdomen and all the way up to the valley between her breasts, the knife moving unevenly through her like a plough in overgrown land.

  The images hammered away at him like a disturbing strobe light and he couldn’t help but watch, breathless.

  He could practically feel the cut in his own guts. Everything was spinning. The four large televisions stared at him viciously. Trembling, he had still managed to find the button. Off. Away.

  The image collapsed with a dull thud, as if there were a black hole inside the monitor, just like in outer space. The noise was awful, but reassuring at the same time. He stared at the dark screen, at the reflection of his own face. A ghost stared back, eyes wide with fear.

  Don’t think about it! Just don’t think about it . . . He stared at the photos, at the whole mess, anything but the monitor.

  What you can’t see isn’t there!

  But it was there. Somewhere in the black hole. The video recorder made a soft grinding noise. He had wanted to squeeze his eyes shut and wake up somewhere else. Anywhere. Anywhere but here. He was still crouched in front of his ghostly reflection in the monitors.

  Suddenly, he had been overcome by the desperate need to see something nice, maybe even Star Wars. As if it had a will of its own, his finger drifted towards the other monitors.

  Thud. Thud. The two upper monitors flashed on. Two washed-out images crystallised, casting their steel-blue glimmer into the red light of the lab. One image showed the hall and the open cellar door; the stairs were swallowed by darkness. The second image showed the kitchen. The kitchen and – his parents. Voices came out of the speakers.

  ‘You make me sick,’ his mother stammers.

  ‘Shit, don’t put on a show like that! You’re acting as if I did it myself.’

  ‘No. You’re . . . even worse,’ she whispers. ‘You watch and do nothing. Through your fucking camera, as if it’s got nothing to do with you. But it does. It has got something to do with you. You film what you want. How is that possible? Did you rejoice when that young thing died? Job done? Money already on the way?’

  ‘Oh god! Please. You don’t know what it is. I . . . I can’t get out of it. I’m as much a victim as . . .’

  ‘Oh, no! Don’t you say that. Just don’t say it.’ Mum’s voice was hysterical. ‘You’re disgusting. A monster. I won’t stay here a second longer. Me or the kids. I’m packing our bags and in the morning I’ll go to the police.’

  ‘You can’t do that, you have no idea.’

  ‘Like hell I can’t. Don’t try to stop me. I –’

  ‘I can’t let you. I would rather kill you.’

  Dead silence.

  Gabriel dug his fingernails into his palms. I would rather kill you. The sentence lingered in the air like a gunshot.

  His mother stared at his father in disbelief.

  ‘You have no idea,’ Dad repeats. ‘What kind of people do you think these are? They would rather kill all of us than allow something like that to happen.’

  ‘They can’t . . . do that . . .’ she stammered, and then: ‘You’re scared that they’ll kill you. That’s it.’

  ‘They don’t have to do it themselves. They have people for that. They have so much money they can always find someone. And if it has to be, then they’ll kill all of us. First you three – that’s what I’m afraid of – and then me. Can’t you understand that, damn it?’

  ‘You’re mad.’

  ‘You’re the mad one here. Why are you just so fucking naive?’

  ‘Naive? You call that naive? I’ve had enough. I’m leaving now.’

  She wanted to go past him, but he pulled her back, threw open a kitchen drawer and suddenly had a long carving knife in his hand.

  ‘You – stay – here.’

  ‘You . . . you wouldn’t dare.’

  Up until that moment, he had thought that the horrific film was the worst thing he would ever see. Now he was sitting before the monitors and couldn’t believe what he heard. His eyes were wide open. He pressed his hands to his mouth to keep from screaming, stared at the image of his mother and father and wished that he were blind! Deaf and blind.

  Tears welled up in his eyes. Everything blurred into a red haze. The chemical smell mixed with the vomit outside the door made him gag.

  He had tried to think, but his head was ready to burst. He wished someone would come and hug him and talk it all away.

  But no one would come. He was alone.

  The realisation had hit him like a crushing blow. He was chilled to the core. He got up and pressed his feet against the cold floor. He had to do something. He was the only one that could do anything now.

  Only, what?

  What would Luke do?

  Quietly, he crept up the cellar stairs, his bare feet no longer able to feel the cold floor. The red room behind him glowed like hell.

  If only he had a lightsabre!

  And then he thought of the telephone. The telephone in the hallway. He had to call the police. And that’s exactly what he did, he had called the police. When he hung up, he closed his eyes and prayed that they would come in time. In time to keep anything from happening to her.

  Just don’t let anything happen to Mum. Just don’t let Dad do anything to her! He looked like a monster. Would the police shoot? Surely they would if it were an emergency.

  Quietl
y, he had stepped outside into the garden and crouched beside the front door with the key in his hand. The ground was cold, but he felt nothing.

  When there was a rustling and he heard footsteps, his heart had skipped a beat. A jump for joy.

  ‘Well, who are you?’ The voice was surprisingly young, but the man looked strong. Just, why wasn’t he wearing a uniform?

  ‘I’m Gabriel . . . I . . . I called you. Are you from the police?’ he sobbed.

  The man’s eyes narrowed. The light from the street in front of the house made him look like a hero, one of those special policeman in plain clothes. ‘Don’t worry, boy. I’m here now.’

  ‘Do you have a gun?’ Gabriel asked, both suspicious and hopeful.

  The man smiled again and pulled a shiny black gun from his jacket.

  Gabriel was weak with happiness. Finally. ‘Hurry. You have to help my mum. My dad is in there and he wants to kill her because of something about . . . about a video.’

  The man squinted again, and his grin suddenly fell flat.

  Determined. He is angry and determined, Gabriel had thought. Like the police officers in the film.

  He unlocked the door as quietly as he could and went into the hallway with the police officer. It was strangely quiet. ‘They . . . they are in the kitchen,’ he whispered hoarsely. ‘Please make them . . .’ but he couldn’t continue.

  Like an animal, his father pounced out of the kitchen onto the policeman. The force of impact made them both tumble into the adjoining living room. They crashed to the ground and the policeman’s gun flew out of his hand, spun around and landed on the ground in front of Gabriel’s feet.

  He stared at his father, or rather, the monster that had once been his father and was now straddling the policeman. He stared at his father’s hands, choking the policeman, banging his head against the floor. He stared at his father’s mouth, which was moving, yelling something his ears couldn’t process.

  ‘Noooooo,’ Gabriel bellowed. ‘Stop!’

  His father continued choking the man. Where was mum? Why hadn’t she come out?

  She’s scared, Gabriel thought. Maybe it was better if she stayed in the kitchen.

  Dad was still choking him. The police officer’s face was turning blue. Did that mean he was dying?

  He couldn’t die. Not the policeman.

  His eyes landed on the gun at his feet. It was huge. Bigger than in a film. Maybe it was because he was so small?

  His trembling fingers wrapped around the rough grip. It was also heavier than it looked in films. Much heavier. He could smell the metal, the oil. It smelled like the machinery in a camera. Gun oil, he thought. Dad always oiled his cameras with gun oil.

  He raised the gun. Not the policeman! he thought. Just don’t hit the policeman. The gun wavered in front of him. Look through the sight, he knew that much. But where was it?

  The police officer’s head was being pounded against the floor. He was hardly fighting back. Aim over the barrel. Look over the barrel! His right index finger was barely long enough to reach over the trigger. So, he used both index fingers. Tears ran down his cheeks when he saw his father at the end of the barrel of the gun. He had already shot one once at the funfair. The owner of the shooting gallery had given him a gun, ancient and worn, and he aimed at tin cans while Dad stood behind him and watched. This was something else.

  The water in his eyes made everything hazy and the weapon shook in his hands. His father seemed to tremble over the barrel of the gun, as he strangled the policeman with both hands.

  Not Mum! Not the policeman! Not Mum! Not the policeman! had pounded in his head.

  His index fingers bent in a joint effort. He closed his eyes. Tightly. Desperately.

  And fired.

  The shot had thrown him.

  He let go and the weapon clattered to the ground. He heard something like a sack falling to the ground. Don’t open your eyes. Don’t!

  He had opened his eyes.

  The policeman gasped and panted. Then he smiled at him, out of breath. He stood up. Stroked him across the cheek.

  Gabriel had winced. He hated being touched on the cheek. Dad had never understood it.

  The officer bent down for the gun and smiled again.

  Like a shadow, the policeman towered over his father, who was lying on the ground, groaning and clutching his stomach.

  Still smiling, the policeman shot Dad straight in the heart. Gabriel’s mouth hung open, he stared at the policeman, his hero. No, not hero. He looked more like a pop star or an actor. As beautiful as someone in a magazine . . .

  His heart stopped.

  That . . . that’s the man from the film!

  Everything began to spin around him, he had trouble breathing. His mind couldn’t grasp what had happened there.

  With shaky steps, his mother had come out of the kitchen, looked at his father and then at him, stunned.

  No, everything inside of him screamed out. Oh god. No!

  Then the policeman had shot his mother. Twice. Two hits. One shot went right through her eye.

  ‘And now, my boy,’ said the man from the film, pointing the gun at him, ‘show me where your father has been keeping that damned video you were talking about.’

  Chapter 53

  Berlin – 28 September, 7.59 a.m.

  Gabriel stares into the mirror and Valerius’s glowing red eye, which is still focused on him. Little more than two or three seconds have passed since he opened the door to the crypt, but in those few seconds lie an entire night – no, an entire life – that’s been derailed.

  ‘Welcome,’ Valerius hisses. The vaulted ceiling throws his voice back and forth. The face in the mirror looks like a hideous mask of triumph: wild fury and restlessness.

  ‘Valerius,’ Gabriel says hoarsely. It’s only now that he’s said the name aloud that he knows he’s actually there in reality and this isn’t one of his nightmares. He is still trembling and feels like he’s being ripped between the bodies of his forty-year-old and eleven-year-old self.

  ‘I should have known,’ Valerius says. ‘I should have known that you would come early. But this early? You’re breaking every fucking rule!’ His voice shakes with anger. ‘The thirteenth!’ he suddenly shouts. ‘I wanted you to be here on the thirteenth!’

  The echo booms in Gabriel’s ears.

  ‘Couldn’t you wait for the invitation?’ Valerius hisses, now whispering again. ‘Apparently, it’s not enough for you to step in shit. You always have to dig in and play with it, too.’

  Gabriel’s knuckles crack as he clenches his hands into fists. His gaze lands on Liz, who is trying to look over at him. Her eyes are red around the rims and the fear in them pierces right through Gabriel’s heart. She opens her dry lips. ‘Help me, Gabr–’

  ‘And you!’ Valerius snaps at her. ‘Shut up, you hear? Don’t move!’

  Gabriel can feel his blood pressure rising. Hatred flares up inside of him and sets him in motion towards the dark figure.

  Valerius sees the hatred in Gabriel’s eyes.

  ‘Stay where you are,’ he roars. His gaze flits down, focusing at a point between Liz’s legs.

  Gabriel follows his gaze and freezes.

  The force of déjà vu nearly knocks him to the ground. He is eleven again, standing in the lab in the cellar and wants to cry, scream, run away. Something that’s bigger than him pulls him out of his childhood.

  Forty again, big again, but still lost like a child, Gabriel stares at Valerius, at his fist, which is wrapped around a knife. A knife that is uncommonly thin, like a scalpel, only larger. The shiny metal blade is pointed between Liz’s legs.

  ‘Don’t you dare,’ Gabriel threatens.

  ‘Just a little bit further . . . if I stick the blade in just a tiny bit further,’ Valerius whispers, ‘then her blood will pour out onto the stone. And then . . . just a bit more, just a tiny bit more, then I’ll be scratching at your little son, Gabriel. Or is it a daughter?’

>   Gabriel bites his tongue until he tastes blood. The warm, sticky liquid in his mouth and the taste of iron slow down his thoughts. He is paralysed with fear. He can’t take his eyes off the blade between Liz’s legs and from her round stomach, which is sticking out of the slit in the white dress. He can practically see the line that the knife will make if Valerius cuts upwards, as he did in the crypt almost thirty years ago and then again with Jonas’s mother.

  ‘Well, well, well,’ Valerius says under his breath. His eyes are fixed on Gabriel’s. ‘You can remember again, can’t you? I can see it in your expression . . .’ A vicious smile forms across his disfigured, two-sided face. ‘Are you scared? You should be. You’ve seen what I’m capable of, right?’

  Gabriel releases his teeth from his tongue and swallows the blood. The metallic taste fills his mouth. In his mind, he measures the distance to Valerius in steps. Eight metres, no more. Give me a moment, just one! His heart is pounding. He goes over every step, every possible blow, breaks all of Valerius’s bones, snaps his neck, stabs him, but no matter how many times he goes over it, he always gets there too late.

  Valerius stares at him in the mirror and it’s as if he can read his thoughts. Then he turns to Gabriel and his eyes leave the mirror, losing sight of him for an instant. Gabriel moves a tiny bit closer and, when their eyes meet again, it’s as if he hasn’t moved. Valerius is now standing to the side. The hand with the knife is still between Liz’s legs, while his head is turned to Gabriel and he’s looking directly at him. The glowing red point in his eye has disappeared; instead, the beam is still shining on the mirror and is illuminating the back of Valerius’s head like a third eye.

  It’s behind the mirror, Gabriel thinks in shock. The red light is behind the mirror.

  Valerius’s face glows; his mouth is an ugly slit. The eye in the disfigured half stares at Gabriel, strangely emotionless.

  ‘Take the knife away,’ Gabriel growls.

  Valerius begins to laugh, loudly and uncontrollably, and then turns back to Liz. Gabriel quickly takes another step forward.