Why? What could possibly be so horrible that Joanna wants to kill me for it? What did she go through? And with whom? With me?
The last few houses in our neighborhood roll past the side window. At least I notice; that’s a good sign.
A country road. No streetlamps. No illuminated shop windows. Just the brief stretch of road that the headlights are snatching back from the darkness ahead of me. A short gray runway which I’m driving along without ever reaching its end. And a corridor on either side, each one several feet in width.
It’s relaxing for my eyes.
And yet there’s something disturbing the picture. A car is approaching from behind. Its headlights are on full beam, so bright that even the reflection in the rearview mirror is irritating. I try hastily to adjust the mirror, and shout out in pain. Used the wrong arm.
In a fraction of a second, I feel nauseous. My car swerves; I overturned the steering wheel. I take my foot off the gas, try to get the swerve under control. Which is really goddamn difficult with just one arm. I have to concentrate so I don’t vomit.
Finally I get the car straightened up again, and I accelerate. The jabbing pain in my arm has made way for a dull, hot, throbbing pain. I don’t know which of the two is worse.
Those lights behind me … they’re getting closer, and very rapidly at that. The driver must be speeding. What an idiot.
Joanna. Again and again, Joanna’s there in my head. She cuts into my thoughts like the edge of a knife. A knife. How fitting.
But what am I supposed to … Goddamn it, is the guy behind me insane? What’s he trying to do? The headlights of his car are growing in my rearview mirror at breakneck speed. Just drive past me already, asshole. The lane’s clear!
Then he crashes into the back of my car. The jolt hurls me forward, then back against the seat again; my head slams into the headrest and I lose sight of the street. Only for a moment, though; then I manage to focus again. The Audi, thank goodness, stays in its lane. There’s only one headlight in my rearview mirror instead of two. The car drops back a bit but stays behind me.
Should I stop? Will the guy do that too? Apologize, maybe? No. He’s probably drunk as a skunk. If I stop now, he’ll probably crash into me again.
I have to keep driving until I reach a residential area. Somewhere where there are streetlamps. Then maybe I’ll be able to make out the car brand and the color. And the license plate.
It’s not far now. A mile, maybe, one and a half at most.
Out of the corner of my eye I notice something’s changed, and I look into the mirror again. The one-eyed car behind me is getting ready to pass me. Good. I’ll be able to see everything I need. I look into the side mirror. Now he’s next to me, but at an angle; maybe in a second I’ll be able to see the driver. Suddenly the headlight jerks to the side and there’s another loud crash. As I feel the Audi busting apart at the rear, there’s an excruciating explosion of pain in my arm. The steering wheel is torn from my hands and turns wildly; I get pushed up against the door; then total chaos. Left is right, up is down, all the dimensions shift in a deafening cacophony of booming, crashing, pounding.
I’m just thinking that my senses might not withstand such a massive onslaught; then a gigantic black talon reaches out to grab me.
* * *
I emerge out of the nothingness into a shapeless interplay of dark colors with even darker ones. I try to move. Pain, everywhere. In my arm most of all. The first memories begin to flicker back to me. An accident. Chaos. There was this headlight behind me. The crash. Everything spinning …
My vision becomes clearer, my eyes adapt to the surroundings. I make out a shapeless, brighter surface. The airbag. It opened, and is now sagging over the steering wheel and dash. The windscreen isn’t there anymore; an icy wind blows away the last slivers of the fog in my head. I turn my head to the side. Everything’s twisted, dented. Like a Dalí painting.
I carefully move my right arm. I manage, but it hurts like hell.
It takes me a while to check all my limbs and determine that I’m probably not seriously injured. The driver’s door won’t open; I have to shift over to the passenger side. Doing that involves a fair bit of effort and more pain, and then I roll out of the car and slide down onto wet, sandy ground. I was lucky.
No sooner than I formulate the thought, I hear myself giggling, in a way I myself could only describe as insane. But is that a surprise? Given all the nonsense my mind’s coming up with?
My fiancée tried to murder me; I only survive by chance. On the way to the hospital, some piss-drunk asshole catapults me off the road and I get into a serious accident. And the first thought that comes into my goddamn mind is that I was lucky?
I try to get to my feet, but then pause. There’s something over there. A parked car, and someone’s getting out of it. There are about thirty feet between me and the vehicle; its motor is still running, the headlights are on. Two headlights, I’m relieved to see.
My eyes scan the surrounding area for the other car, the one that forced me off the road. Nothing. It’s gone.
The person is approaching me; the light behind gives him or her a dark, two-dimensional appearance, like they were cut out of paper.
The figure stops just in front of me. I still can’t make out a face.
“What happened?” A man’s voice, young-sounding, and panic-stricken. “Are you hurt?”
“Yes,” I answer. “But I don’t think it’s too serious.”
“Well, it all looks pretty horrendous. I’m going to call an ambulance, OK? And the police. You wait here. And don’t move.” He raises a hand as if he had to reassure me somehow. “I … I’m just going to go back to my car, my phone’s in there. Just a moment…” He hastily turns away, runs back to his car.
My arm throbs, a reminder. My arm. Ambulance. And the police. What am I going to tell them about the wound? I know the answer even as I’m formulating the question in my mind. It’s so easy.
I just had an accident.
I feel my arm. The fabric of my shirt sleeve is wet. I grasp it around the shoulder, dig in my fingernails, and yank it strongly, tearing the seam. The second time I pull, I tear the fabric apart as well, baring my upper arm. But now there’s the dressing to deal with. I loosen the end and start to unravel it. The white-hot stabbing pain in my arm is back. It takes all of my energy, but then it’s done. I glance hurriedly over to the vehicle on the side of the road. The young man is standing next to it, still on the phone.
I realize that I’m in the process of covering up Joanna’s attempted murder. Which answers the question from just now once and for all. But what am I going to do with the stupid bandage? If I leave it around here somewhere, someone’s going to find it. Into the pocket of my pants, then, and I’ll see where I can get rid of it later on. I have to stretch a bit, but then the piece of cloth vanishes into my pocket.
Why I’m covering for Joanna after she tried to kill me is something even I don’t understand. Maybe it’s a reflex. An urge to protect her, still.
“The police and the ambulance will be here shortly.”
I hadn’t even noticed that the young man had come back.
“Thanks,” I say in a strained voice, hoping he’s right. I need a shot of painkillers. A tablet. Something.
About ten minutes later, the police and the emergency ambulance arrive together. While I’m still being hoisted onto the gurney, one of the two uniformed officers asks me how the accident happened. I tell him about the headlights behind me, about the first collision, which I managed to get under control, and about the second one, that swept me off the road.
No, I wasn’t able to make out either the car make or the color. No, couldn’t make out the license plate either.
“Maybe it was some drunk,” I tell the officer.
“Yeah, maybe. Have you been having any problems with anyone lately? An altercation, maybe?”
“What? I don’t understand.” And I genuinely don’t.
The man cocks
his head. “Could it be that someone deliberately tried to force you off the road?”
I feel the pain in my arm. Think of Joanna. Joanna?
I just manage to stifle the yes before falling back into darkness.
23
I almost can’t bring myself to go back into the kitchen, but I know it’s unavoidable. Erik has been gone for a good ten minutes now, and since then I’ve been cowering in the hallway with my hands pressed against my eyes. Sobbing. Thinking. And none of it has helped even in the slightest.
I would have killed him. With the knife that haunted my thoughts from the very first evening Erik came into my life. And today it was as though it took on a will of its own, seeking its target without any help from me whatsoever.
No. Don’t be a coward, not now. Don’t make up laughable esoteric theories. It was me and me alone who did it; I had fixated on the spot on Erik’s back that looked the most promising, where the knife would cut the deepest.
And I’ll take responsibility for it. I stand up, immediately see black spots flickering in front of my eyes, am even pleased about it for a few seconds. If I faint now, I wouldn’t have to think anymore, maybe never again …
But I stay conscious. I’m not the type to faint easily. Holding my breath, I take a step into the kitchen.
It’s a battlefield. Blood is splattered across the worktop and walls, and there’s a smear of it across the front of the fridge too, from where Erik was leaning against it. But most of it is on the floor.
The knife is lying where I dropped it, on the cutting board right next to the tomatoes.
I see it all, and don’t understand any of it. All I know is that I can no longer trust myself, because the next time I might shove some child into the street or drive the car into a group of pedestrians or something like that. It’s understandable that Erik didn’t want me to take him to the hospital. It’s better that way.
I get a cloth and bucket from the cupboard containing the cleaning products, fill the bucket with hot water, and start washing away the blood. After that, I scrub the floor with a brush as well, cleaning it more thoroughly than anyone ever has before.
It’s not because I’m hoping to hide what happened; on the contrary, I’m assuming that Erik will report me as soon as his wound has been seen to. I’m even happy about that in a way. If they lock me up, I’ll no longer be solely responsible for myself. I’ll be kept away from everyone, able to breathe, and I’ll no longer have to be afraid I could hurt someone. Not even myself.
I clean the kitchen walls until my arms hurt and there’s no longer a trace of blood to be seen in the entire room. After that, I find myself wanting to carry on; the task is stopping me from having to think, saving me from the images, the guilt, the unspeakable fear of this … thing in me, that has moved me to …
The knife. I still haven’t cleaned the knife. It’s in the sink and has left a red smear on the silver basin. The stain on the blade shows how deeply it cut into …
I only just make it to the toilet in time. I throw up until my stomach is empty and the exhaustion numbs my senses. Now I can wash the knife; I’m able to bear the feeling of having it in my hand. Fear that I could suddenly turn it on myself and plunge it into my stomach or neck takes hold of me for a moment, but passes quickly.
I polish it until it shines, then put it back in the block.
Erik must have arrived at the hospital a while ago now. Maybe they’ve already given him stitches and are keeping him there overnight, on an antibiotic drip.
My phone is still on the coffee table, next to the sofa where we spent the afternoon. Laughing. Kissing.
I dial the number I saved in it earlier. Erik probably won’t pick up, but I could at least leave him a message. Tell him I’ll bring his things to the hospital if he needs. Tell him I’m sorry. So unbelievably sorry.
The number you dialed is not available.
That’s unusual. If I knew Erik better … or remembered him, then I’d know if he usually turns his voice mail on or not, or whether this is just an exception. Maybe he was on the phone? Or had no reception at the hospital?
I try again five minutes later, then again after ten. The same result.
What if the bleeding got stronger? If Erik lost consciousness at the steering wheel? If he …
I run up the stairs, into the study, and open my laptop. Which hospital was Erik most likely to have gone to?
I try the closest one, even though there’s no emergency department there.
“Good evening, my name is Joanna Berrigan, I’m looking for Ben…”
My God, what am I saying? Ben? Why does this name keep popping into my head?
“Sorry. I’m looking for Erik—” I am so anxious I can’t remember his surname. The one I only recently learned. It starts with a T, I’m sure of that, but then what? Thaler? Thanner?
“Who is it you want to speak to?” The woman at the other end of the line already sounds irritated, and although I don’t really care, it’s still enough to break down my composure.
“I’m looking for Erik … Thieben. Erik Thieben! He has a wound to his arm and was going to drive to the hospital. Is he with you? I can’t reach him on his phone and—please tell me if he’s with you.”
The woman clears her throat. “I can’t give you any information over the phone.”
“Why not?” Now I’m almost shouting. “Please! He’s my fiancé.” It feels like a lie. But if it is, then it’s his lie.
“If you want any information, you’ll have to come by in person with your ID.”
I hang up. Look for the next number, and try to sound calmer this time. But the result is the same.
Number three on the list is the hospital where Ela works. Ela. She wouldn’t brush me off, I’m sure of it. But first I’d have to tell her, admit what I’ve done. And I’m so ashamed. After all, she was the one who suggested I have myself committed. If I’d done that, none of this would have happened.
I pull myself together. Ela will find out anyway, so it’s better if it comes from me. Without any sugarcoating or hesitation.
She answers after the third ring. Even though I try to sound unemotional, she interrupts me after the first few words.
“What on earth is wrong, Jo? You sound awful! Did something else happen?”
My fingers grip the phone so tightly that its edges cut painfully into the palm of my hand. “Yes. Erik is injured. He drove to the hospital, and I can’t reach him.”
“Which hospital?”
“I don’t know.”
I hear Ela exhale loudly. “You don’t know? OK. Tell me exactly what happened.”
It feels as though I’m leaping, out of a window or off a cliff. From the moment I can no longer feel the ground beneath my feet, it’s as though things just take on momentum of their own, going faster and faster.
I confess everything to Ela, from the moment when we went into the kitchen, to when Erik drove off.
After I finish, there’s nothing but silence on the other end of the line for a few seconds. “You attacked him with the knife,” Ela whispers, so quietly I can hardly hear her.
“Yes. Even though we were getting along so well. Even though I was really starting to like him … What’s happening, Ela? What’s wrong with me?”
She doesn’t answer for a while, and when she speaks again her voice is cool. “Let’s deal with your issues later. First I’m going to try to find out where Erik is, and I’ll get in touch again afterward. Please try not to cause any more chaos in the meantime, OK?”
I can hear as much contempt in her words as I feel for myself. I mumble good-bye, then curl up on the sofa and close my eyes.
And see nothing more. Hear nothing more. Feel nothing more. I manage to go into a merciful semiconscious state, and it’s only the ring of the telephone that pulls me out of it again. Ela.
“I found him. He had a car accident on the way to the hospital. He says the car’s totaled.”
“Oh my God.” And I let him drive alone,
in the state he was in. Instead of calling an ambulance. “Is he badly injured?”
Coldness resonates from Ela’s voice again when she answers. “The stab wound you gave him is the worst injury he has, but of course he has some extra scrapes and bruises now. Nothing too bad, luckily. But he has to stay overnight.” She hesitates before continuing. “And he doesn’t want to see you. He forbade me from telling you where he is.”
I understand, very well in fact, but it still hurts. Even though that’s illogical.
The memories of this afternoon are suddenly all around me again. His lips, his hands. The way he looks at me.
“But he does want me to look after you,” Ela continues. She doesn’t sound too enthusiastic about it.
“You don’t have to, I—”
“I’m doing it for him,” she interrupts me. “Do you realize he’s covering for you? That he’s claiming the wound on his arm is from the accident?”
“No,” I whisper. “How could I know that?”
Ela sighs. “I’m coming to get you now. Erik is worried about you; he doesn’t want you to spend the night alone in the house. He’s an idiot, obviously, but he’s one of my best friends. Be warned, though, I might just hit you for almost killing him.”
“Do it,” I say. “As much as you want.”
She laughs, at least. “OK, Jo. Pack what you need for the night. And when we get back to my place, we’ll talk, OK? You need psychiatric treatment, you see that now, don’t you?”
“Yes. See you soon.”
I spend the evening on one of Ela’s armchairs, with my legs pulled up to my chest and my arms wrapped around them. As if holding on to myself that way was enough to stop me from doing something else uncontrolled. Ela gives me a list of experts that she’s printed out, along with a few case reports about people with systematic amnesia whose stories align with mine in some ways, but are completely different in others. None of them became violent.
I listen with one ear, but my thoughts are with Erik. He didn’t report me. I wonder if I’ll still get the opportunity to thank him for it.
24
They let me leave just before midday. Neither the X-ray nor ultrasound yielded any findings.
Strangers Page 15
