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by A. Wendeberg

  Floh stubs out the joint on the floorboards and sinks against Chris’ shoulder. ‘I’m tired,’ she whispers.

  ‘Bed, hon?’ he asks.

  ‘Yeah.’

  I’m not surprised she wants Chris, but it still feels like she just stabbed me with a knife. She told me on our first date that she’s a sexual freelancer. From a logical angle, I should be fine with that. I can’t handle her extremes — all the energy, personality, the happiness and depression that bubble out of her. The steep ups and downs. I should be glad she’s sharing it around.

  But it makes me feel unwanted, unneeded. Betrayed.

  I watch her and Chris go, then I follow Horst down to the cellar.

  ‘She any better?’ he asks.

  ‘No. Chris is with her now. She’ll be okay in a few days.’

  ‘Who will take her shifts?’

  ‘Chris and I will figure it out. What are you doing?’ I point at a gutted receiver.

  ‘I thought I should try to build a near-transparent metal wire sheet thingy that can serve as a receiver, and be taped to the glass facade.’ He hums and nods, waving his hand at me. ‘Step out of the light, boy, and let me tinker a bit. You take care of that girl of yours.’

  ‘A sheet thingy?’

  Horst grunts. He’s not the chatty type when he’s building stuff. So I leave him to it, go up to the kitchen and tackle the chaos. I don’t care how filthy his house is, but I need something to do. My mind is a mess.

  I give the sponge a good rinse, scrape handfuls of slimy leftovers out of the sink, and — too lazy to make a fire — fill it with cold water.

  My neck aches with tension. I lean on the counter and stretch my shoulders. Gregor Fucking Lange. I don’t think we can handle the guy. What are we, really? A bunch of thieves and hackers, squatters and insurgents who started off as a weird version of Robin Hood’s gang. Take from the rich and give to the poor. Sort of. That’s why we’re called the Providers. And that’s what we were until we stole data. It was an accident, really. The hard drives were in a box with burner phones. When we saw what the drives contained, we couldn’t believe it. It’s like when the doctor tells you, you’ve got cancer and there’s nothing they can do for you. At first, you don’t believe it, you are in shock. You ask for a second opinion, do your research, and finally learn that it’s true: you are fucked. And from that point on, your life, the whole world, looks radically different. But only in your own eyes. Everyone else is just as blind as you were the day before.

  Damn, I want to live in the woods. In a small hovel far away from all this.

  ‘Bullshit,’ I mutter, and scan the kitchen for a piece of soap. The dried-up, unidentifiable stuff Horst has left in small bowls around the sink is so gross, I’m tempted to chuck them all out the window.

  I pick them up and fill them with water. They can soak until he finds them. Which might be Christmas two years from now. Horst is a pig. How can he be so messy and careless with everything else, but when it comes to intel, he keeps it under such tight control, it’s almost paranoid? The way he wants us to to this — with only a handful of people — is not going to work. We’ll need to man the microwave gun and the receiver. An audio team has to work on the recordings, because they’ll be pretty low quality. We’ll also need a team ready to clean out headquarters if Chris, Floh, or I get captured. And hopefully, we’re soon going to need an army of hackers.

  One would think Horst learned the term “teamwork” in the army. Seems he didn’t. That guy has two weaknesses that can put every mission at risk. One, trust no one. Two, when encountering any female, get between her legs.

  Not my problem. I’ll call in a meeting for tomorrow night at the bunker. We have to bleed Lange of information to get anywhere with him. But what then? Release all the evidence and let the world know what Lange is doing? He’ll just cover it up. He practically owns the world. And I don’t think blackmailing will work on him.

  Abruptly, I look up. Lange has two children. How old are they now? Ten? Twelve? No, that can’t be right.

  I huff. I’m not the guy who condones the abduction of kids. Nevertheless, we’ll have to discuss this option. All options, up to and including assassination. If we end up killing the man, who will do it? Horst? No, he’s too old, too slow, when it comes to it.

  I stop and gaze down at the grey wash water. Shells of sunflower seeds idly float among soap bubbles. A few are stuck to my arms.

  I can think of only one person who fits the job description.

  Me.

  — TWO —

  Kay

  Meet my family: my warmhearted mother, successful father, perfect brother, and me — all loving, wealthy, and attractive. My makeup artist charges three thousand Euros an hour. Mom’s takes in twice as much, because of her age and her poison. Dad doesn’t allow a camera near us without said makeover. You wouldn’t recognise my normal self. You wouldn’t believe how much our shit stinks.

  Groaning, I bonk my head on my desk. Miss Wannabe Firepisser would be a perfect pseudonym for me.

  Mom owns three charities to which Dad donates regularly, and his PR office sends anonymised hints to newspapers to make sure they don’t miss the family’s calculated generosity, which we always wave away as nothing when asked. It’s the humane thing to do. Nothing to talk about. Really.

  Shit. How the hell do writers write without puking all over their first drafts?

  I’m writing this on paper, because computers aren’t safe. Nothing with a processor and the capability to connect to another device is safe. My laptop is scrubbed once a week by specialists, although I don’t actually save anything of relevance on the hard drive. I pay everything with cash. CASH! Can you believe it? Dad explained it all to me when I turned twelve…

  If I had to make a living as an author, I’d be dead.

  I give the stupid blog “How To Write Yourself Into Every Bestseller List” a last glance, and close the browser window. The screen turns dark and reveals part of my reflection. And finally it sinks in: I could spew out the shittiest prose the world has ever seen. People would eat it up and ask for more.

  Kathleen Lange tells how it really is in her new memoir, “My Pretty Life.”

  I tear off the page, fold it and fold it until it’s tiny, then slip it into my jeans. Like other people launder money, I launder memories. Write them down, throw them into the toilet. Don’t we look wonderful now.

  The grandfather clock on the wall tells me it’s almost ten. Time to go, but I know I should spend some time with Mom before I leave, else she’ll be mad at me for weeks.

  I walk down to the salon and find her doing crossword puzzles. She’s totally immersed, so I plop on the couch and switch on the news. A reporter says that scientists discovered why it hurts so much to step on a Lego piece. The French president (fat-ugly-old) has an affair with a man (young-beautiful-replaceable), and a new Star Wars is out. I can’t remember which episode it is.

  Mom sighs, refills her drink, and sits down next to me. ‘I’ll divorce him,’ she says in a low voice. It’s her we-conspire-against-the-world tone. ‘Tomorrow.’

  ‘Okay.’ Tomorrow is Sunday. She doesn’t have a lawyer. She could get one, sure. What she has is a therapist. It’s not only her head the man is probing.

  ‘Your dad is a psychopath.’

  ‘Okay.’ From the corner of my vision, I see her lift her drink to her mouth. Slowly, I turn my head to gaze at her. The movement in her throat. The thick makeup. She looks plastered, wrinkly, tired. Worn out like an old dishcloth. She’s staring at the screen. Fiercely. As if she wants to make her life happen there instead of here. The urge to snatch her glass and throw it across the room is so strong, I shiver.

  My throat burns. I swallow and take a deep breath. Her therapist would tell me (he actually did tell me) that I hate her because I hate myself. I would tell him (and actually did tell him) to go ahead and stick his thumb in his butt.

  I started threatening my parents with moving out when I was fourteen.
I’m nineteen now and still here. Like mother, like daughter. We both lack a spine. Neither of us can decide whether we want to be rebellious or comfortable. In a way, Mom’s therapist hit home.

  Abruptly, I stand and make to leave the room.

  ‘Kathleen! Where are you going, dear?’

  To strangers and jerks, I’m Kathleen. Or, Miss Lange.

  ‘Friends, Mom.’

  Friends know me as Kay.

  ‘Who?’

  I don’t answer and open the door to my room.

  ‘Take a driver, honey!’

  ‘Sure,’ I say and shut the door. I grab my backpack, stuff in a handful of cash and a long-sleeved shirt — just in case — and leave the house.

  I take the tram, because I know Dad’s little tracking program will go berserk when it catches my PayCard being used to buy a ride to some shady middle class district. He gave me the card to see just how stupid I am, but that’s only a theory. He’ll try to call me, but my phone is at home on my desk.

  It’s pathetic, but there’s no other way to make him notice me. I’m not perfect, like Christopher.

  As I get off the tram, I pull my hoodie lower into my face and make my way through brightly lit streets. A left turn and twenty careful paces through a dog shit minefield, and I reach the apartment building where Frank lives. Music pulses through half-open windows. At the door is a handwritten sign:

  Party, 2nd floor, from Friday 3pm to Monday 5am.

  Might be a bit loud at times.

  Sorry.

  Below that, someone has written several WTFs.

  I climb the stairs to the second floor and knock. No one opens. I ring the bell, knock again, then kick at the door until the frame rattles, and bits of dirt and plaster drop to the floor.

  The door opens a crack. ‘Oh, hey, I thought it was the cops. They grabbed two of our stereos already. But we borrowed another two from the neighbours.’ A boy the size and shape of a lamp post grins. He has a pimply chin that hints at facial hair. I wonder who invited him.

  ‘Cool,’ I say and push past him. The corridor is full of people. Someone plays something by The Stoned Pixels. It must be Anke. She’s really good with a guitar, because, she said, she dated a musician once. She also dated a professional ice skater from the Netherlands for a few months. Ever since, her ass and thighs have been totally buff. She even won a Friesian canal race one winter. She’s my best friend, but there’s nothing useful she can absorb from me. No special knowledge. No skills.

  I find her in the kitchen, French kiss her, grab a joint from Frank, and don’t kiss him just to piss him off. The three of us are friends with benefits. Only…without the sex. They give me friendship as long as I provide benefits.

  I have no illusions. To people who know who my dad is, I am a walking cash machine.

  ***

  A clinking noise wakes me up. For a moment I think I’m still sitting next to Mom on the couch. But no, I’m sandwiched, and the noise comes from…below me? Anke is pressed against my stomach, snoring softly. I turn my head and spot a stranger curled up against my back, two more guys behind him. Everyone is dressed. Hallelujah.

  I peek over Anke’s shoulder and find an abyss. We are squeezed onto Frank’s new loft bed. The one with the railing and the stair still missing. He hasn’t had time to screw them on.

  How did I get up here? I dimly remember a ramshackle ladder one of the guys leaned against the bed so Anke and I could climb up and “do whatever we needed to do.” I snort. Boys!

  I wrap my arm around Anke and pull her closer to me and further away from the edge. My index finger stings. I lift it up to my eyes, squint, and see a fat, angry, popped blister at the tip. There’s ash in it. I tried to stub out a joint, but forgot to use the ashtray. Weed makes me way too relaxed sometimes.

  I stick my finger in my mouth. With my free hand, I scratch an itch between my boobs. Something is crawling on my skin. I pull out my shirt and peek in. A flea? No way! It hops out of sight before I can mush it.

  Someone down below seems to be awake. There’s a shuffling of feet. A grunt. Male. Slowly, he climbs the ladder and sticks his head over the edge. He looks like he needs a thorough laundering and a bucket of strong coffee. ‘Mind if I join?’ he croaks.

  I want to say I do mind, but he’s already on his way.

  ‘Woopsie,’ he cries as the ladder tilts back. He throws out his arms and is gone. A crash tells me he’s hit the table with all the beer bottles. He grunts, so he’s probably still alive.

  Should I check on him? His back might be broken. But I start feeling weird — that I know this sequence of events from long ago. I shut my eyes and breathe deliberately.

  When I was little, I believed I should be locked up because I was crazy. I believed I was the only person on Earth who could see accurate glimpses of the future. I learned later it was only an electrochemical storm in my brain.

  My seizures always begin with deja vu. Sometimes, that’s all there is. Other times, it gets worse. No biggie, though. I can feel them coming on, and have enough time to park the car, put my head between my knees, lie down, whatever I need to do to keep from bashing in my skull.

  It took me a few years to learn that, though. My upper front teeth are fake, but no one would ever guess, that’s how good they are. I knocked them out when I was eight or nine. They found one tooth embedded in my lip.

  Epilepsy taught me to observe my brain. If that’s even possible — to observe the thing that’s doing the observing. Anyway. I love the colours. The first twenty-four to forty-eight hours after a seizure, I see colours super intense. I imagine it’s like an LSD trip. I’ve never tried LSD. I don’t do hard drugs, don’t even drink alcohol. Smoking the occasional joint is all I dare. The possibility of losing control creeps me out. That, and I could end up like Mom. Sometimes I wonder if my seizures are from her drinking when she was carrying me.

  But Dad would never have allowed that.

  There’s a polite knock at the front door, then an equally polite voice. ‘Miss Lange, your car is waiting for you.’ Ah, the driver.

  Dad is ever efficient.

  ***

  White napkins are neatly folded into birds. Cutlery is lined up next to porcelain plates. I don’t touch the silverware. Not yet. I love to watch the different shades of grey, silvery-white, light blue, and — in the tiny fissures — black, flicker and morph when I move my head. The crystal glass on my right throws spiky rainbows onto the tablecloth. I squint, and they light up even more.

  Only Nancy, our maid, is a little colourless this morning. With a somber expression, she stands at attention, trying to read every wish on our lips. I play with the thought of telling her about my morning. Especially the flea. And the guy who sailed off the loft bed. That would brighten her up.

  ‘You are smiling,’ Mom says and cuts her toast into equal-sized pieces. ‘Did you enjoy the party last night?’

  ‘Yep. Where’s Dad?’

  She shrugs. ‘You could ask me how my evening was.’

  ‘How was your evening, Mom?’

  ‘Oh, this and that.’ She sighs, which means I’m supposed to read her mind. If I don’t, I’ll get the passive-aggressive treatment. She sets her mouth to a thin line and uses her fork to shovel perfectly parallel paths into her scrambled eggs. ‘I watched an interesting documentary. Something about bees.’

  ‘Nice,’ I say, and empty my glass of water. At once, it’s refilled by Nancy, who’s also responsible for keeping mom’s liquor glass three-quarters full. The turquoise of the mint liquor seems iridescent today. I love this colour only when my perception is seizure-dyed. On normal days, I hate it. Mint, in any form, disgusts me.

  ‘They said the bees are dying.’ Her chin trembles.

  ‘Mom, the bees are going to be okay. They’ve been around for millions of years.’ I try my warmest tone, but don’t get it quite right.

  Her gaze shoots up from her plate. She pulls her eyebrows together and inspects my face. ‘Have you gained weight, ho
ney?’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘Around the cheeks and the chin.’ A pointy movement with her fork. Quick and effective.

  ‘No idea. I don’t weigh them separately from the rest.’

  She huffs. ‘You have to take better care of yourself. Develop a sense for…you know what I mean.’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean.’ Actually, I do know. It’s the in-ten-years-you’ll-be-fat-and-lonely topic.

  ‘Your physique, dear! Even when I was pregnant, I did not gain a single gram!’

  ‘I’m not pregnant.’

  ‘I will book you a personal trainer. Look at Christopher. Even your father is…’ She drops her gaze and clears her throat, then looks at me again. The whites of her eyes are yellowish. I feel sorry for her liver. ‘Your Father is forty-one years older than you, and even he has abs.’

  ‘As all the pretty women in his office know.’ Well, shit.

  She pales, places her fork down, and pushes up from her chair. ‘On the inside, you are just like Gregor.’

  ‘I wish.’ Well, shit again.

  I watch her leave.

  Dad once said to me, ‘Truth has an unfortunate habit of dropping out of your mouth.’

  — THREE —

  Alex

  We sit on the floor of a World War II bunker. It’s so deep below ground that the temperature is a constant thirteen degrees Celsius, no matter how hot or cold the weather. Horst wears his grimmest expression. He hates me right now. But I don’t care.

  I let my gaze travel through the room. Every face, every story is different. Floh, who’s the toughest and the most vulnerable of us. Chris, who I trust with my life. With my girlfriend even. Crabster — our youngest. Thirteen, and already with a criminal record. Someone dragged him in one day. I didn’t know if he was a boy or a girl. He told me that’s because he doesn’t give a shit about gender, that there’s more important things in life. I laughed at him. He’s wiser than I was at that age.