Not Her

by Noah Fitz

  “Yeah, man. If I only knew who the asshole was.” Dixon looked around and tapped a finger against his neck. “I’d slit his throat,” he said. To make his threat clear, he ran his thumb across his throat, from one ear to the other.

  All just hot air, Peer knew that. Dixon would never seriously hurt anyone. He was a wimp.

  “I don’t know, man! I’m not going to film you electrocuting yourself.” Again, Dixon read the instructions and shook his head. “You’re going to die, and I’m going to jail. They’re going to fuck me in there. In the ass. I’m a black man, remember?” His lower lip was wet and shiny.

  Peer wiped the clock away and called up the app. After a cursory search, his finger hovered over a short text message. “It’s either you or Enno,” he said. Beads of sweat glistened on his forehead. “I need your help.”

  “Forget it,” Dixon said.

  “Enno’s not here. You just have to hold the phone and not the fucking wires. For five seconds this time.”

  “Should we maybe fix the sockets… or find one without electricity or something? Or cut the wires…” He searched for words. His voice sounded distorted. “I recently heard a couple teachers from our class talking about the bracelets and what they mean.”

  “That’s not important now. It’s time.”

  “I don’t want to. Ask Sarah.” Dixon’s gaze followed the circles Sarah made on his skateboard.

  “No, bro. Watch this.” Peer held the cell phone in front of Dixon’s dark eyes as the video played.

  “ ’This is your last chance,’ ” Dixon read. “ ’Otherwise… ‘ ” He read the last sentence in a whisper. A film of sweat lay on his upper lip, which he wiped away with the back of his hand. “Is that the video he’s been blackmailing you with?” He pressed the box with a blurred image.

  “Are you stupid?!” Peer ripped the cell phone away and made sure that Dixon hadn’t accidentally uploaded the video.

  “What’s on it?” Dixon asked.

  “I fucked Yara,” lied Peer.

  “Oh?” Dixon grinned crookedly. “Is that why she jumped off the bridge? Because it was so disappointing?” His hands were in his pants pockets. He bounced slightly on the balls of his feet.

  The stupid remark, which was intended as a joke, was acknowledged with cackling laughter behind them. The boys spun around, startled.

  “Did you do Yara?” someone asked. It was Olaf, the bum. He stank of piss and was always creeping around.

  “What? Fuck off.” Dixon pushed him away with such force that Olaf stumbled several steps before catching himself.

  “Hey, Dixon!” Sarah pushed the board in his direction, but the bum intercepted it.

  Olaf pulled up his waistband, stepped on the approaching skateboard and pushed himself awkwardly with one foot through the yard. Howling, he was pushed into a bush by two other boys. “Wankers!” Olaf cursed, but he remained lying under the branches. “Not so bad here,” he said with a wry grin on his scarred face. He had been hit by a car last year and had smashed the windshield with his head. He had been in a coma for months.

  “Another five minutes,” Peer said. “I need to hurry.”

  Dixon spun around. His eyes searched the crowd.

  “No Enno in sight?” Peer said. The tremble in his voice revealed how close he was to going crazy.

  “Fine,” Dixon said, his shoulders drooping.

  “Leave me alone, you motherfuckers!” yelled Olaf in the background. Peer and Dixon paid no attention to him as they strolled toward the concrete stairs. The barred door was not locked. In the past, the janitor had kept his tools there: sweeper, snow shovel, stuff like that. But after the lock had been repeatedly broken, the old man had given up the place.

  Peer was the first to squeeze through the rusty lattice door, which was blocked on the other side by bulky boxes. The hinges squeaked, protesting. The air smelled of piss, excrement, and decay. Probably a dead rat somewhere.

  Dixon grabbed Peer by the shoulder. Peer wanted to shake his hand off, but the grip became so strong that it hurt. “What’s wrong?” Peer said.

  “Let’s go to the cops.”

  “You chickening out?” Peer drew back his lips. “I’d rather die than—”

  “Is the video that bad? What’s his hook, Peer? Tell me. I wasn’t completely honest with you before. You were the one who told me to give it to Yara.” Dixon grabbed Peer by the collar. “I’m not a faggot, okay? There’s nothing going on between me and Enno!”

  Peer pushed him away. “I never said there was. And I don’t have time for this.” Was he mistaken or could he see the hint of a mischievous smile on Dixon’s lips?

  “Did you make the video?” Dixon asked. “Did you try to buy your way out of it? Did you send it to him?”

  “No!”

  Dixon lit up the small room with the light of his cell phone.

  “Why do you want to go to the cops?” Peer asked. “I might as well ask you if you filmed me doing it, too. After all, I went after you, or have you already forgotten that?”

  “I was wasted, man. I don’t remember much. I don’t know if I even got it up. Maybe he just wants us to turn on each other.”

  “Exactly,” Peer said. He shone a light on the gray concrete wall. “There’s the fucking socket.”

  “Are you sure about this?” Dixon asked. He had already forgotten the fight.

  “When you sweat,” Peer said, “the current is distributed over the skin and directed away from the heart. I saw it in a documentary about the electric chair. Some of the murderers didn’t die until after the third attempt.” What he said sounded casual, yet the images in his mind resembled a horror show. Peer just didn’t want to look chickenshit. “This should be my last test,” he said, more to himself.

  “What if you do get killed?”

  “Shut up.”

  Dixon lowered his voice. “Do you get to choose between two tasks?”

  “Yes. Electricity or stop at red.”

  “Then why did you choose the sockets?”

  There were many reasons for Peer’s decision, which he was not willing to explain. “No idea. Be quiet. Don’t let him hear us.”

  The inventor of the game had no name. In his status there was only one dot and his avatar was a black box.

  From the inside pocket of his jacket, Peer pulled out two short cables, which he shaped with concentration. The bare copper wires shone red in the bright light of the flashlight app. “Here.” He handed Dixon the cell phone.

  “No.”

  “Dixon. Don’t be a pussy.”

  Dixon’s fingers closed around the phone.

  “I have to prove that the socket has power.”

  “How?”

  Peer pulled out a small night light. A laughing yellow smiley face. He plugged it in. “Hold the camera on it,” he said, then made room and pointed his finger at the yellow glow. “What does the clock show?”

  “Three seconds,” Dixon said.

  Peer took a deep breath.

  Ping. The indicator on the phone lit up red. The tiny change was enough to make Dixon panic. “Now,” he said. With his free hand, he wiped sweat from his forehead.

  “Electricity is on,” said Peer. He took the nightlight out of the socket and then put it back in to illustrate, then let the nightlight disappear into his jacket. Carefully, he pushed the two wires into the socket. The bare ends sparkled in the cold light.

  “Your phone’s getting warm.” Dixon shifted his weight but stayed on his heels because the room was not only narrow but also quite low.

  Peer rubbed his thumb and index finger together. “I need you to look at the camera for a second, Dixon.”

  As if he were slow on the uptake, Dixon frowned.

  Peer’s eyes became as big as plates.

  “Oh, right.” Dixon sighed and turned the phone so that he faced the camera. His pupils shimmered like two black marbles on a honey-brown background.

&nb
sp; “That’s enough,” Peer said. The freckles on the bridge of his nose glowed. “This is the second try.” He spoke in a monotone voice and closed his eyelids for a second. He moved slowly, without lowering his gaze, not wanting to give the impression that he was afraid. Only for a moment his eyes flitted down. His thumb and index finger moved toward the wires.

  “The zeros. They’re flashing.” Dixon’s tone made Peer go pale. “Now!” Dixon said, gripping the phone with both hands.

  Peer’s fingers clamped shut.

  Immediately he began to tremble. His jaw muscles bulged from under his skin.

  “Two.” Dixon said.

  “Three.”

  “Four.”

  “Five!” Dixon said triumphantly, but then a figure appeared behind him, throwing him to the ground. The figure shoved Peer by the arm and threw him to the ground as well.

  “What the hell is this?”

  “Who are you, man?” Dixon kicked up with his right foot but missed and hit an empty box instead.

  The man dragged Peer outside first, then Dixon.

  “Are you guys crazy?” The stranger straightened his dark blond hair and patted the dust from his jeans. “What were you doing in there?”

  “Nothing.” Dixon grinned crookedly and cocked his chin. His gaze was stoic, but only until he was hit by a fist from behind.

  “You fucking demon!”

  “Mama?” Dixon spun around and got down on his knees. He ducked and only barely escaped another blow from his mother. The willowy woman grabbed Dixon’s magnificent hair and pulled him up off the ground. She seemed hardly older than her son.

  “What is this?” She held a small bag of white powder under his nose. “I moved away from Munich because of you. And this is what you do? I quit my job, a well-paying job.” Her voice began to tremble.

  “Mom, I’m really sorry, believe me.” Dixon sounded sincere. With his left hand, he still held Peer’s cell phone behind his back.

  “What you got there?” his mom said.

  “Nothing.”

  “My phone,” Peer said. He grabbed it and swung it visibly.

  “What were you doing in there?” She looked at her son, then at Peer, and then finally at the blond giant.

  “Are Peer’s father?” Mrs. Dixon asked.

  “No,” the man said. “I was just watching them for a while.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “What are you, a pervert?”

  Dixon sensed an opportunity and seized it immediately. “Yeah, he was waiting for us! He’s been following us for days.”

  “No, I wasn’t. I work here.”

  “He’s lying.” Dixon hid behind his mother. “He sold me the stuff.”

  Too far, dumbass, Peer thought. He punched his overzealous friend on the shoulder.

  The blond man tugged at his leather jacket and straightened his collar. Peer realized he recognized him. It was Immanuel. What was he doing here? How long had it been? Three years?

  “We can always call the police,” Immanuel said. He pointed his chin at Peer’s phone. “Go ahead.”

  Dixon’s mother turned around and twisted her son’s left ear. “Thanks, I’ll sort it out myself,” she said, and dragged Dixon through the yard. Glaring at the kids around her, she said, “Don’t any of you take pictures of me. My husband will cut all your heads off, I swear to you.”

  No one but Peer knew that Dixon’s father was a lanky banker whose skin was even paler than his own. He had been working in England for two years, was a bit older, and was definitely not a gangsta rapper, as Dixon always claimed. That’s why his mother had divorced him, not because he wasn’t a rapper, but because he was a workaholic who preferred work to his family.

  “Were you trying to kill yourself?” Immanuel asked. His pleasantly deep voice made Peer flinch imperceptibly. “Didn’t quite work out, did it?”

  “Just fuck off,” Peer said.

  “Whatever you say. But I’m going to keep an eye on you guys from now on.”

  “I don’t care. Why are you back here? My sister is still dead.”

  “I’m sorry about your sister.”

  Peer’s cell phone rang, but he didn’t answer it. His hand fiddled with the smartphone.

  “Is that your mother?” Immanuel asked. He sounded surprised, but also puzzled and amused.

  Peer followed the man’s gaze. “Shit,” he said, embarrassed. On the display of his phone, Peer’s mother smiled up at him. A snapshot from happier times. It was her calling.

  “Do you know her?” he asked. Without waiting for an answer, he picked up the call and held the phone to his ear.

  “Will you be home soon?” his mother asked. “We were supposed to have dinner.”

  “Be right there.” Peer hung up and looked at Immanuel again. “My mom’s married. You better keep your filthy hands off her.”

  “Or else what?” Immanuel said, lifting the corners of his mouth in amusement.

  Peer remained silent and searched for a suitable threat, but he didn’t want to sound childish either. Did you rape my sister? he wanted to ask. Is that why she threw herself in front of that car?

  “Hello?” Immanuel said. “Are you trying to kill me with your eyes right now? Or are you mentally playing through all the possibilities of how to get rid of me?”

  “Did you put chocolates in my mom’s mailbox?”

  “That was her chocolate!” Immanuel said, raising his big hands in defense. “She dropped it, I swear. I only brought back what was hers.”

  Peer was conflicted. On the one hand he wanted to kick the guy between the legs, but on the other hand he wanted to give his mother a chance to be happy again. He did not want to believe Immanuel had done anything to Pia. He seemed like a very nice guy.

  Immanuel smiled.

  Peer resisted the impulse to smile back.

  “But if she is married,” Immanuel said, “then I will leave her alone. Family is sacred. And I am really very sorry about Pia’s death.”

  Peer ignored the condolences. “My mother isn’t married,” he admitted. “Not anymore.” He put the cell phone away, buried his head in his thick sweater, and trotted away. His fingers were still tingling, his heart was beating in his throat, and his right temple was throbbing. But the test had been passed, that was all that mattered now. Dazed, he staggered home on weak knees. He didn’t even notice that Immanuel was following him.

  Chapter 15

  Marktheide | On the bridge

  On the bridge, Tine pulled her coat tighter against the wind. The roar of countless vehicles racing past made communication even more difficult. “You took the photos without the parents’ consent?” she said, starting a new attempt to make her partner feel guilty.

  “They won’t even notice,” Wulf said. “There are only two of them, and court order simply takes too long.” His footsteps quickened. He apparently felt no guilt and looked stubbornly straight ahead.

  “You could have simply asked Mr. Michel.”

  “I only borrowed them. And he would have said no anyway.”

  The air was hazy. Mist rose from the gorge and clouded Tine’s view. In the distance, several warning lights pulsated bright yellow.

  “The construction site is just up ahead,” said Wulf. The remark was completely superfluous, Tine thought, but said nothing. She was concerned. How could she work with a man who was simply not made for functioning in a team? No wonder his wife had left him.

  “Watch out!” someone shouted from the side. A violent jerk tore Tine out of her thoughts.

  “Are you out of your mind?” Wulf yelled and pressed Tine firmly against his chest. “You could have sliced her head off!” He let go of Tine. He smelled of men’s cologne, an intense but unobtrusive fragrance.

  A man appeared from behind the parapet. “I didn’t see you coming,” he said. He was breathing heavily. “I’m sorry. But when you’re surrounded by idiots, these things happen.” He spoke slowly and clearly. “Could
you help me over to the other side for a minute? I’m in charge of forensics here.” The tall man was hanging from several ropes. “Sometimes I’m glad to work on my own. At least I know where I stand.”

  “I agree with you.” Wulf reached out his hand.

  Tine looked down. Her partner had apparently not yet calmed down completely. “Why are you throwing sharp metal sticks around? Is that part of your job?”

  “We lost it, the stupid thing,” said the forensic scientist. Then he heaved his enormous body over the parapet. “A gust of wind carried it away.” His weather-beaten face grew red spots from the effort. He was in a garish protective suit. The stripes reflected the light from the headlights. A neon-yellow helmet sat a little crooked on his huge skull. He sniffed and pulled on a rope. Wulf and Tine waited in silence. She found the whole situation strange.

  A metallic clatter elicited a satisfied grunt from the man. “And voilà. Here is the missing piece of the puzzle.”

  “Did you wear the work gloves the whole time?” Wulf asked.

  “As per regulations,” said the head of forensics.

  Wulf pointed with his chin to the man’s open fly. “Even when peeing?” he asked.

  “No, not then.” With a hint of shame, he placed the piece of handrail on the asphalt and turned away from the street, turning his back to the two policemen.

  “Has anyone else touched this piece of evidence?” Wulf asked.

  “Am I God?” With his back still turned to the two of them, the man tugged at his trousers.

  “You need a cutting disk for that,” Wulf said, staring down at one edge of the piece of railing.

  “That’s right,” said the forensic scientist, which seemed to improve Wulf’s mood. “An angle grinder and a capable battery.”

  Wulf crouched, pulling a ballpoint pen out of the inside pocket of his leather coat. He used the pen to poke around one side of the metal piece. “I’m glad you found it. It certainly wasn’t easy. Could an employee of the company in charge of the repair have damaged this part of the bridge like this?”