by Will Hill
By talking with the crew as they ate their vast meals of meat and potatoes, he discovered that he spoke German, English, French and Russian, although he had no memory of having been to the countries where he was told these languages had come from. He talked for a long time with Hans, the boat’s first mate, a veteran of more than forty years’ fishing, and as he listened to the old man’s stories, of places he had been and women he had known, of the adventures of the man’s youth, occasionally Frankenstein had felt something tighten in his mind, as though he had almost been able to feel the edge of something solid, before it slipped away through his fingers.
The crew had sent him on his way when they reached port, with a jumper and a pair of overalls that were far too small for his giant frame. But he appreciated the men’s kindness, and their lack of suspicion; he was half-expecting to see the police and the coastguard waiting for him when the ship steamed into Cuxhaven harbour. But the only people on the dock to greet the boat were the crew’s wives and girlfriends, relieved to see their men home safely once more. The crew, who were fishermen born and raised, and had seen a lifetime of strange things at sea, had clearly decided that the huge grey-green man, whom they had hauled from the water as though he was nothing more than a grossly swollen cod, was none of their business.
Frankenstein had walked off the dock with no idea where he was, beyond the rudimentary picture of European geography that Hans had described to him, and no idea where he might go to begin the process of attempting to piece together who he was.
He was completely lost.
As night fell, and the cold wind drew in around him, carrying heavy flakes of snow with it, he had found a group of homeless men and women beneath a bridge on the outskirts of Cuxhaven. They had not welcomed him, nor offered to share their small amount of food, but they had not driven him away either, and had eventually allowed him to huddle round their brazier, and keep the worst of the cold from his bones. The following day he had headed south, away from the sea; he reached the tiny farming hamlet of Gudendorf as night fell, and the full moon rose above him, sickly yellow and swollen in the clear sky.
Suddenly a bolt of agony had burst through his body, driving him to his knees. It felt as though his skin was on fire, as though his bones had been replaced by molten metal, and he screamed up at the moon, as his body began to break. With sickening, agonising crunches, his bones snapped and reset in new shapes. Blood boiled in his veins as thick grey hair sprouted from his skin before his eyes, which had turned a deep, gleaming yellow. His face stretched and lengthened, his teeth bursting from his gums and sharpening into razors, as he fell on to all fours, no longer able to scream; what came from his gaping mouth was a deafening, high-pitched howl.
As the moon shimmered above him and the transformation neared completion, he began to run, shambling forward on four unsteady, newborn legs, then faster and faster, as the last vestiges of his rational self succumbed to the animal that roared in his blood, until he was racing through the dense, snowy forest, towards a distant light and a plume of grey chimney smoke, towards the thick smell of animal fear that drifted through the frozen trees.
The following morning, for the second time in barely a week, Frankenstein had woken up in a strange place, with no memory of how he had arrived there, or what he had done; compounding the strangeness this time was the fact that he was naked, and lying beside a main road.
Mercifully, the road was deserted, as dawn was barely scratching the sky in the east. But even as he looked around in an attempt to get his bearings, the cold of the German winter bit at his naked skin, and he knew he needed to find shelter, quickly. The patch of ground where he had woken up was a circle of damp green grass, the snow thawed away, as though he had been emitting tremendous heat while he slept. He was coated in something sticky, and when he rubbed his hands across his face, they came away streaked with red.
Frankenstein reeled, but then the wind blew hard across him again, and he tried to put the red substance from his mind and concentrate on staying alive. He began to stagger alongside the road, his breath clouding in front of him, towards a gentle slope in the terrain, above which smoke was rising in lazy loops.
Beyond the rise lay a farmhouse, facing away from the road and out over frozen fields and the forest beyond. Frankenstein tried to open the small gate, but his fingers were so cold that they refused to grip; he half-climbed, half-fell over it, his body screaming in pain as he landed in the hard, freezing snow. He staggered towards the house, prepared to risk the likely wrath of whoever it belonged to, knowing that he had to get out of the cold, had to or else he would surely die, when he saw a long washing line strung between the house and a tree that rose from the middle of the garden’s small lawn. He made for it, his feet numb and his grey-green skin now a virulent shade of purple, and hauled clothes down from the line, scattering the pegs on the ground.
Once he was dressed, Frankenstein thumbed a lift in the back of a pick-up truck, burying himself deep beneath a pile of sheepskins, which had carried him as far south as Dortmund. He had spent nearly two weeks in a homeless shelter on Kleppingstraße, only being forced to leave when a kind, nervous woman named Magda had started to take a little too much of a friendly interest in him.
Frankenstein still didn’t know who he was, but he knew that nothing good would have come from encouraging her affection. And so he had left, in the middle of the night, and resumed his journey, following the cargo routes through Germany, looking for something, anything, that might unlock his memory.
Frankenstein watched as Andreas slowly wheeled his truck round, and headed out on to the northbound lane of the road. Behind him were row after row of articulated lorries; huge rigs, eighteen and twenty-two wheeled, their trailers towering above him in the darkness of the parking area. When Andreas’s pick-up had been absorbed into the stream of red lights on the motorway, he made his way through the labyrinth of vehicles towards the diner that lay beyond the filling station.
Jeremy’s was a no-frills kind of place; a simple, greasy, one-storey building, in which Jeremy and his wife Marta sold heaped platefuls of cheap, starchy food to the endless stream of lorry drivers making their way south, to Paris, to Bordeaux, to Spain and Portugal beyond. Most were wired on coffee or amphetamines, and wanted nothing more than something hot to line their stomachs; it was these low expectations that Jeremy and Marta were experts in accommodating.
Frankenstein was not interested in the food, or even the temporary respite from the cold that sitting in one of the café’s linoleum booths would provide. He was only interested in finding a way of continuing his journey, of continuing south. He had no money to offer any of the drivers, and no goods to barter: no drugs, or alcohol, or pornography. There was always a chance that he might find a driver who craved human companionship, who was quietly going crazy at the isolation of being on the road, of the disembodied voices that floated into his cab via CB radio. But it was unlikely; the men who lived this nomadic life did so largely because they wanted as little to do with other human beings as possible.
“Are you a thief?”
The voice was soft, and lilted sweetly on the night air. It seemed to contain no accusation, only curiosity. Frankenstein turned to see the owner of it standing in the shadows between two of the enormous lorries.
It was a little girl, a tiny thing of no more than eight. She was wearing jeans, a T-shirt, thick, sensible work boots and was holding a small model of a truck in her hand; she was every inch a driver’s daughter. She was frowning at him, staring up at his huge frame, her forehead furrowed.
“I’m not a thief,” Frankenstein replied, lowering his voice. “Are you?”
The little girl smiled, involuntarily, at such a naughty idea, then remembered herself, and frowned again.
“Of course I’m not,” she said, firmly. “This is my daddy’s lorry.” She reached out and touched the wheel of the truck she was standing beside; it was taller than her.
“Where is your daddy?” asked F
rankenstein. “You shouldn’t be out here on your own. It’s cold.”
The little girl pointed to Jeremy’s transport café.
“Daddy’s playing cards,” she said. “The clock said he had to stop driving, but he’s not tired.”
“Does he know you’re out here on your own?”
“No,” she replied, proudly. “I sneaked out. No one saw me.”
“You shouldn’t do that. It’s dangerous.”
“Why?” she asked. “Aren’t I safe with you?”
Frankenstein looked down at the tiny figure beside the wheel.
“You’re safe,” he said. “But we should still get you back to your daddy. Come on.”
He held out a huge, mottled hand, and the little girl skipped forward and took it. She smiled up at him as he began to lead her towards the café.
“What’s your name?” she asked, as he stopped at the edge of the parking area, checking that nothing was about to pull up to the fuel pumps.
“Klaus,” he said, leading her forward across the brightly lit forecourt.
“That’s a nice name.”
“Thank you.”
“My daddy’s name is Michael.”
“What about yours? What’s your name?”
“My name is Lene. Lene Neumann.”
“That’s a pretty name,” said Frankenstein.
“You’re nice,” replied Lene, smiling up at the monster that was holding her hand. “I like you. Are you going south? I bet my daddy will give you a lift with us.”
Frankenstein was about to reply when an almighty crash rang out above the noise of the idling engines. He looked at the truck stop, and saw a commotion in the small diner, before the screen door slammed open, banging with a noise like a gunshot against its metal frame.
A man was silhouetted against the fluorescent lighting of the transport café. He was short, and heavy-set, with a baseball cap perched on the top of his round head.
“Lene!” the man bellowed. “Lene! Where are you, sweetheart? Lene!”
The man leapt down from the doorway, and ran across the forecourt in their direction. He would see them as soon as he reached the shade of the fuel station’s canopy. Behind him, a cluster of men and women followed him out of the diner, all calling Lene’s name.
“That’s my daddy!” exclaimed Lene. “He’s looking for me! I bet we can go when he finds us!”
A sinking feeling settled into Frankenstein’s chest, and as he looked down at the little girl’s hand wrapped tightly in his own, everything seemed to slow down. He saw the rotund figure of Lene’s dad pass under the canopy and out of the blinding spotlights that illuminated the entrance and exit ramps. The man’s face was ghostly pale, his eyes wide, his mouth a trembling O of panic. The men who were following him across the forecourt were all drivers, some of them carrying wrenches and crowbars. Frankenstein looked again at his hand, and Lene’s hand, and realised what was going to happen, realised it was too late to do anything about it.
“Daddy!” cried Lene, and the group of running men bore to their left, adjusting their course towards the sound of the little girl’s voice, like a flock of birds in flight. Lene’s father skidded to a halt in front of them, and took in the scene he found before him.
“Lene,” he said, gasping for breath. “Are you all right? Did he hurt you?”
“Don’t be silly, Daddy,” his daughter smiled. “This is my friend, Klaus.”
The rest of the men drew up behind Lene’s father, weapons in their hands and looks of anger on their faces.
“He’s your friend?” asked Michael Neumann. “That’s nice, sweetheart. But you come over here next to me now, all right? Come on.”
Frankenstein let go of Lene’s hand; she ran happily over to her father, and hugged his leg. Her father stroked her hair, his gaze never leaving Frankenstein, his eyes like burning coals.
“You shouldn’t sneak off like that,” he said, his voice low and soothing. “How many times have I told you? It scares me when I don’t know where you are. You don’t want to scare me, do you?”
Lene looked up at her father, an expression of terrible worry on her small face.
“I’m sorry, Daddy,” she said. “I won’t do it again, I promise.”
“It’s all right,” he replied, still staring at Frankenstein. “I want you to go with Angela and wait inside, OK? Daddy will be there in a minute, and then we can go. All right?”
Lene nodded. A teenage girl wearing a white waitress uniform stepped forward, looking at the monster with obvious disgust, and took Lene’s hand. The little girl waved at Frankenstein as she was led away. He raised his hand to wave back.
When the door of the diner clanged shut a second time, the group of lorry drivers stepped slowly towards Frankenstein, who found himself backing away down the narrow space between two rigs.
“What were you doing with my little girl, mister?” asked Michael Neumann, his voice trembling with anger. “What the hell do you think you were doing?”
Frankenstein knew that nothing he could say would change what was about to happen, but he tried anyway.
“I was bringing her back to you,” he said, trying to keep his voice level. “She was hiding from you, and I told her it wasn’t safe. I was bringing her back.”
“He’s lying, Michael,” said one of the other drivers, a huge man in a leather jacket that was creaking at the seams. “I’d bet my last cent on it. He knows he’s caught.”
“I’m telling the truth,” said Frankenstein. “She told me you were playing cards and she sneaked out. She saw me next to your truck and asked me if I was a thief. I’m not lying.”
“What were you going to do to my daughter?” asked Lene’s father, his voice little more than a whisper. “What were you going to do if we hadn’t stopped you?”
You didn’t stop me, thought Frankenstein, anger spilling through him. If I was the kind of person you think I am, I’d be twenty miles down the road with your daughter and you’d never see her again. Because you were playing cards instead of watching her. Because you—
The thought was driven from his mind as a crowbar crashed down on the back of his neck, sending him to his knees. One of the drivers had crept round the back of the rig that Frankenstein had been retreating along; now he stood over the fallen giant with the bar in his hand, bellowing.
“He’s down, boys!” the man roared. “Let’s show him what we do to his kind!”
The men surged forward, their weapons raised, Michael Neumann in the lead. Rage exploded through Frankenstein; he erupted to his feet, his enormous frame jet black in the shadows between the trucks, and grabbed one of the drivers by the neck. The man’s roar died as his throat was constricted by the monster’s huge hand, and then he was jerked off his feet and into the air, as Frankenstein threw him against the side of one of the trailers with all his might. The man crashed into the thin metal, leaving a huge dent, then slid to the ground, blood spraying from his head.
The rest of the men skidded to a halt, their eyes wide. This was not how it was meant to go; they were supposed to teach the stranger a lesson, and leave him on the ground while they went back inside and finished their game.
“Come on!” shouted Michael, his voice faltering. He ran forward, a torque wrench raised, but then the enormous shadow of Frankenstein engulfed him, and he stopped. He stared up into the terrifying face of the monster, and his courage deserted him, along with the men who had accompanied him; they fled back towards the café, shouting for someone to call the police as they did so.
Frankenstein reached out and took the wrench from the man’s hand. Lene’s father offered no resistance; he was transfixed by the sight of the giant man standing over him.
Frankenstein lowered his head until it was level with the man’s. Breath rushed out of his mouth and nostrils in huge white clouds, and blood trickled over his shoulder from where the crowbar had split the skin of his neck.
“Next time,” he said, his voice like ice, “pay more attent
ion to your daughter than to your cards. Do you hear me?”
Michael Neumann nodded, shaking.
“Good,” said Frankenstein, and dropped the wrench. It clattered to the ground at Michael’s feet, beside the unconscious shape of the man who had been thrown against the trailer. Michael turned and ran, without looking back.
Frankenstein prowled the edge of the parking area, looking for a way out.
His heart was pounding, his stomach churning at the memory of the sound the man had made when he crashed into the side of the truck, and at the ease with which he had inflicted the violence. He had just attacked, on instinct, without thinking.
It had felt so normal.
Once their fear subsides, they will call the authorities, he thought. And it won’t matter that they attacked an innocent man; when they see me, it won’t matter at all.
He reached the end of one of the long lines of trucks, and suddenly found himself bathed in light. The last rig on the stand, an enormous thirty-wheeler, was covered in hundreds of bulbs of different colours, like a vast Christmas tree laid upon fifteen pairs of wheels. Frankenstein looked up at the cab, and something opened up in his mind.
Above the wide windscreen was a dot matrix display, like the ones that displayed the destinations on the fronts of buses. This one displayed only a single word.
PARIS
A nauseating tangle of memories burst through the monster’s head, images and voices, feelings and places he couldn’t identify. But he understood that the word was familiar, the first thing he had found that was.
Movement in the cab caught his eye, and he ducked low beside the truck’s wide radiator as the driver settled himself behind his steering wheel. A moment later Frankenstein’s whole body vibrated as the huge diesel engine roared into life.
