Dortmund Hibernate

by C. J. Sutton

  “Don’t move!” screamed the first, inching closer, weary of the wounds on the men he moved towards, unsure who the biggest threat was.

  “I am Walter Perch, head guard from Dortmund Asylum. This is an escapee, Lonie Tregar. I caught him threatening a family. He…had me hostage, but I managed to break free thanks to this man; he’s a doctor and fellow hostage.”

  Walter pointed with a steady hand at Magnus, the doctor standing with hands in pockets and a sickness to the stomach. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Jasper, sitting on his rear in the dirt. One cop from the Dortmund-side squad car had a rifle tracking every movement of the older Paul.

  “Is this true?” asked the cop, checking his back-up.

  Magnus opened his mouth to respond, but Lonie’s high-pitched wailing pierced the air, a sound that would call dogs from three cities over.

  “Shut up! The woman said an old man held a gun at her husband and son. Where is the gun?”

  “I tossed it in the shrub,” said Magnus, nudging his head right, “it’s empty, but we needed to remove all threats.”

  “Lonie Tregar? I know that name…rapist, murderer…cop killer,” said the second cop. They wore caps, bullet-proof vests, held rifles. The beam of light from their cars revealed every line of skin, every strand of hair, every wound attempting to heal after 24 hours of war.

  “Unlock him, Walter,” said the first cop, and as the click signified chance Lonie made one last attempt at freedom…but he tripped on his own feet and smashed his forehead against the side of the four-wheel drive. Barely conscious, he moaned in a language learned from Carter, aware his swindling days were over. The two cops lifted him to his groggy feet, cuffed him with superior equipment and led him to the squad car, slamming the door once his broken body lay within.

  “He’ll go away for life,” said the first cop to Walter, patting him on the back, “you need to go to the hospital. We’ll take you to the nearest hospital. Can you walk to the squad car?”

  Walter slapped away the hand: “Only after I see Lonie locked away.”

  The cop radioed for medical attention for Lonie, but did so in a relaxed tone; priority did not lie with the swindler’s wellbeing.

  “Boss, we’ve got someone else bleeding over here.”

  Attention turned to Jasper. The man sat in the dirt with both arms hugging his knees, which were raised and brought close to his chest; the angle must have caused great discomfort with the injury, causing Jasper to shake uncontrollably. His head was down, with only dark hair visible to the oncoming police. His back was arched against the shrub-line, no sneak attack possible. Walter seemed unfazed by the capture of Jasper, instead gazing at Lonie.

  “Sir,” said the cop, the butt of the rifle pressed against his shoulder, “sir, are you alright?”

  Nothing but shudders.

  The cop questioned Magnus with a furrowed brow. Another spoke.

  “Who is he?” he asked.

  At this point Magnus knew he had a decision to make: side with Jasper and admit their blood linkage and his professional days were over; side with society to ensure his own safety, but give Jasper the end he requested.

  “Must be another hostage,” said Magnus, shrugging shoulders, “looks fairly beat up.”

  Five of the six cops now had raised rifles. The first man to locate Jasper neared the cowering body, shuffling feet.

  “Sir?”

  Magnus’ heart thumped so loud he thought the cops would fire on suspicion.

  “Sir?”

  As the hand reached out, Jasper tripped the cop and stole his rifle in a motion so swift that Magnus was unsure he’d seen correctly. Before the cops could focus sight on Jasper’s unprotected body, he lifted the cop with one arm and placed the nozzle onto his throat.

  “Step back, or he gets it.”

  One cop, rifle in hand, spoke: “I’ve got a clear shot, boss.”

  “No!” he yelled, eyes attached to the hostage, a friend “it’s too risky.”

  Jasper smiled. Magnus now understood how possible it was for the man to manipulate the police; he used their morals, their care, their fear against them. As he had nothing to lose, their ability to stop him waned with each passing second. For if they were to take the shot and kill the threat, could they guarantee their comrade’s safety? These men reported to superiors, to the public, to the families of the fallen; Jasper reported to nobody.

  “I’ve done this before,” he said, finding voice and basking in the moment, “four cops in an apartment, dead in minutes. You know why? Fear. I was born without it. Hate, anger, suffering… they’re the cousins of fear, and I often have those. But not fear. You are afraid that if you shoot me, this man dies. Your fear makes you hesitate, makes you think: hmmmm, how will you break the news to his wife, his children. I’m punished because I do not feel fear. Locked in a cage for years, because I do not feel fear. I could kill you all, now, because I do not feel fear. Send me into war, I will not feel fear. Send me in to a burning building, I will not feel fear. Hide me from the world…and here we are. Society failed you.”

  Each word was a punch to the ribcage, a body blow removing air. Magnus didn’t want these men to die. Enough blood had been spilled by Pauls.

  “You’ll never see the light of day again,” said a voice, to which Jasper laughed, a tear-inducing, stomach-rumbling laugh.

  “That sounds…familiar.”

  He dropped the frozen cop, raised his arms and received sixteen bullets before either man hit the ground, ripping holes in his torso and his limbs. Jasper fell backwards into the shrub, still laughing, and Magnus fought back personal anguish in the eyes of authority. Slowly, the laughter died. A bulge resting on Magnus’ brain disintegrated, leaving his head with less weight, his muscles with less pressure. His heart with less fear.

  Walter’s squad car vanished. Lonie’s followed, the old man’s face pressed against the glass, streaked with blood and tears, aware that karma served a dish straight out of the freezer.

  Minutes passed as the remaining police scoured the scene, every grain of dirt, every inch of shrub. Magnus was rooted to the spot. More men arrived in squad cars and on motorbikes, taking photos of the four-wheel drive, finding Officer Clip in the back and placing his body in a bag carefully, solemn as they assessed one of their own despite his jurisdiction. Jasper’s body remained in the shrub, with three men in suits assessing the scene while holding recorders, marking each bullet hole and the lingering smile on his face; the corpse had an air of terror. The man who had been captured by Jasper approached Magnus, still shaking: “Doctor Paul?”

  “Yes?”

  “Are…are you okay?”

  Incredulous, to be asked how he was despite the asker escaping the clutches of death. The cop, up close, was drained of colour and rather young, a similar age to Magnus and without a hint of facial hair. He would never forget this night, nor would Magnus. It would either make the cop, or ruin his career; the staple of big moments, putty to those who know what to do with their hands.

  “Yes…why do you ask, officer?”

  “He spoke of fear…that man. But you…you’re not afraid. If anything, you seem…sad?”

  Even as the words fell away like leaves down an autumn pass, the officer appeared to question himself.

  “I’m tired,” smiled Magnus, “this has been a very, very long night, feels like I’ve been hostage for ten years, probably more.”

  “Well,” said the cop, shaking his head, “they’ll ask you a thousand questions before your night is up.”

  On another day, in another life, a person may have been nervous by the interrogations waiting at the police offices in the city; but this person had built a career on using a situation to advantage. Fabricating a story did not faze Magnus Paul. If Walter’s story were to be different, who would they believe; the captured doctor from the city, or the guard from an Asylum who spent the last twelve hours in a boot alongside a rotting body?

  “Dangs,” yelled a cop from inside the four
-wheel drive. He eyed Magnus also.

  The officer, known as Dangs, walked to his superior. They conversed, often glancing back over their shoulders. When he returned, Magnus steeled himself.

  “Find anything of interest?” he asked, hands in pockets.

  “He wants me to ride the motorbike back to the station. I…” he continued, and Magnus noticed the twitching of the man’s legs, the sweat on his brow, and the lack of a gun in his holster.

  “Can I take it?” said Magnus like a schoolboy, eager to leave the scene, “I’ll take it straight to your station, I swear it.”

  “Do you…even have a motorbike licence?”

  Magnus pulled his wallet out of his pocket, proving his credentials to mount the beast.

  “Usually we wouldn’t allow a civilian…”

  “I’m a doctor, and I have a licence. I can’t exactly leave the country. Explain your oncoming Post Traumatic Stress to your superior. I’ll wait.”

  Magnus walked to the ride, running his hand along the machinery, the warmth of prior use flowing through his veins, the need to mount the stead alone and ride off towards the towers of the concrete jungle uncontrollable.

  “Doctor, I can’t,” he tried, but Magnus already sat upon the police motorbike, one hand requesting the keys.

  “Which station do I need to go to?”

  He ignited the engine and roared away from his brother’s hold, every cop glued to his exit. Officer Dangs hurried to his superior, raising palms and explaining himself to his comrades in a tone deaf to the rider. Magnus did not care; the open air whipping at his face told a new tale, one that was attuned to a canvas of his own creation. The radio crackled, the superior’s voice monotone: “Station 2B, doctor. Steady pace.”

  No longer shackled, the doctor sped past the Shell service station.

  After fifteen minutes he could see it, the horizontal line of buildings, different shapes and sizes blending to create a jagged sight of possibility. Here stood a land that banished the sick, that shouldered the suffering into the distant, dusty towns to protect the social norm. And with a faint hint of regret, Magnus roared towards this opportunity, his reputation again bolstered by strategic puppeteering of the people.

  First, he lost his mother, a woman juggling children desiring more than could be provided.

  Next, his sister, too young, entrenched in an ecosystem of the constant high.

  And finally, his brother, a leader of men and a notorious killer, the only father he’d ever had, a figure his life was in constant link to…until now.

  Light began to colour the rising buildings before him. Magnus closed his eyes as tyres screeched across the well-paved road. That dull throb in the back of his skull…had vanished.

  Dear Dr. Paul,

  There will be no meeting, only payment into your nominated bank account. Our business concludes once you finish reading this letter. We will never enter into an agreement again. The Asylum is gone. The patients are gone. Therefore, your role is complete. But also gone is one of our longest serving employees, killed during duty. We understand that such times do not resolve without consequence. We do not ask for an explanation. For so long as you never contact us again, we shall never need to contact you. So long as you keep the happenings of Dortmund to yourself, we too shall keep your ‘indiscretions’ locked in a cabinet with one emergency key. The police will forget you. Survivors in Dortmund will forget you. Do with your name and your finances what you will.

  What are nine, compared to a city of millions?

  Death

  My final lesson to you, Magnus Paul, as your tutor: never linger. Do not give your brain time to be comfortable, or to manifest a connection with anyone but yourself. Connection will only cause you pain in this profession. Leap from one place to the next, and save as many as you can. I see a desire in your eyes for change, but change is not always positive.

  Three years later…

  “Dr Paul, there’s a man here to see you.”

  Magnus, half way through a salad sandwich which left crumbs on the floor of his office 23 storeys high, cursed under his breath as the voice of his secretary filled the room and echoed insistently. From behind glass windows the concrete towers were magnified, a kaleidoscope of grey shade delving into the lives of millions, a watcher of madness for the king in his chambers.

  “It’s my lunch break. Tell him to make an appointment like everyone else.”

  Reading through the file of a patient suffering from split personalities, the lunch break had stretched 45 minutes. A drizzle of ranch dressing splattered against the papers when the voice came again, more eager than before.

  “Dr Paul…he’s not leaving.”

  “Fuck,” he muttered, rubbing at the wet stain forcefully to worsen the damage. “Fine, send him in.”

  Magnus pressed the button beneath his desk to unlock the door. The click was greeted with a creak as the wooden door slowly nudged forward. In walked a man with a hobble, assisted by a curved metal rod that tore at the rug. A circular scar marked the left side of his face, a skin colour devoid of life and resigned to permanency. Wearing a buttoned blue shirt and pale jeans, Magnus barely recognised the man out of uniform…but as he neared the red couch, the moustache and the cautious eyes revealed the identity like a curtain drawn on stage.

  “Walter?” said Magnus, forgetting about the stain, “it’s been—”

  “Three years, nearly to the day,” replied Walter Perch, wincing as he sat down, “the night my leg was snapped in four places. The night I stopped men from scarring kids for life, from intimidating a young family on their way to a small town for a weekend with the grandparents. I remember it vividly.”

  Magnus tossed the file into his cabinet, poured two glasses of water and sat opposite his old colleague, trying to remain professional, eyes on the metal rod.

  “I have many questions,” he said, watching as Walter guzzled the water like a man seeking solace from a thirst unquenchable by fluid.

  “As do I,” replied the former guard, hand shaking as he placed the glass on a mahogany table. “You’ve done well for yourself, as usual.”

  He gestured to the office, framed documents of merit lining the wall alongside photos of the doctor with people of great importance. A bookshelf of eleven rows bulged with knowledge on one side, and on the other was a strip of fake grass for golf putting practice.

  “This is all…for the patients.”

  Walter tried to smirk, but such an expression was forgotten through such a stretch of decay.

  “Lonie is dead. He finally found a way to kill himself in prison; happened last night. He didn’t quite reach the length of Carter’s time in Dortmund, but I visited him most days; raped, bashed and broken from reports. All deserved, if you ask me.”

  Walter’s voice had a harsh edge, part of his tone now, a signifier of not the physical wounds but the mental damage.

  “I promised myself I would see you when he passed, for only then would my focus shift from him…to you.”

  “I always wondered,” said Magnus, rotating his glass with thumb and forefinger, “why you didn’t tell the cops about me. I walked into that police station certain there’d be ramifications. But after an hour, they let me go and never asked another question.”

  Walter held out his glass, asking for more. Magnus acknowledged the attempt, but waved it away; he wanted answers now.

  “You lost your sister. You lost your brother. My aim was to ensure Lonie found the inside of a jail. You weren’t a priority and Jasper was dead. I was hoping…that living with the death of all those people in that small town would haunt your dreams, but I look around here and I’m of the opinion that you’ve used the events to better your career.”

  Magnus snatched the glass the poured again, the tension rising the temperature in the room as both men sweated, the chess board set.

  “Why are you fucking here?” spat the doctor, impatience setting into his mind.

  Walter, his cautious eyes on the glass, acce
pted and drank.

  “Can people afford to see you, Magnus? Only the rich can be insane and free: the government provides eight free sessions a year to citizens, but is that enough to keep them from becoming violent? Do you do this for the money, or to help people? On the path to save your brother, did you manage to save anyone who was sick?”

  “Are you here to lecture me? Am I the only psychologist in the city?”

  Finally, after three years of losing the power, Walter smiled…and the sight belonged in Dortmund.

  “Has any psychologist in this city gone to the lengths you have?”

  Magnus wanted this session to end.

  “If I disgust you so much, why didn’t you kill me?”

  “Well,” said Walter, rising with the assistance of his metal rod, “I’m here to ask you the same question. Your brother ordered me to die. Lonie watched from metres away. You went to great lengths to keep me alive, to keep it a secret even from your flesh and blood. I never did understand why until I came here today. You kept me alive because a part of you wanted to be free from Jasper. When you set the bastard loose, you knew no good would come from it. You wanted me to kill your brother, because you couldn’t do it yourself. For your sister, for your mother, for society…or from your attachment. But he let himself be killed. How convenient.”

  Magnus walked over to his desk. He unlocked a drawer, reached within and flashed a small metallic piece which shimmered in the ray of natural light streaking through the glass windows.

  “What is that?” asked Walter, squinting.

  “The master key to Dortmund, opens every door. It wasn’t Lonie who planted it outside Jasper’s cell. Brian and Shirley had little idea of what happened in that foul place. It was you… so I’m not the only one who wanted Dortmund Asylum to cease. You removed the gun and set in its place a key to unlock all horrors. If Dortmund was the way to treat people with the sickness, it’s not why I became a doctor. You’re of the same opinion. We’re equals, you and I, but at least I knew my mission. How did you expect it to end? For Jasper to leave into the night, for you to be free of his voice? That was foolish. Jasper’s voice never leaves you. I hear it every night before I sleep, every morning as I wake. As do you. In his final act, he chose not to kill an innocent man. Now, I may be biased, but that is progress. Changed behaviour. It was then I knew I had the ability to save the sick, no matter how far I digressed. If you’re here to kill me, make it quick; I have a 2pm in about…” he said, checking his watch, “five minutes.”