Strangers

by Ursula Archer

  I find myself holding my breath again. I listen for sounds from outside, but everything is quiet. “What should I do?”

  36

  How often have I asked myself that very question these past few days? What should I do? What can I do? Although, until now, it had mostly been about Joanna not remembering me. Now it was about our survival.

  Our. In the past, I’d never been truly conscious of how far-reaching the consequences of this one single word could be. It’s only now, where the our I’d taken for granted had suddenly broken up into a she and an I, that I recognize its true meaning. How fundamental it is, that feeling of being loved.

  “Maybe we should hide somewhere in the house for the night. Who knows what Gabor might be planning.”

  Joanna brushes a strand of hair back from her forehead. “You really think he’d send someone over here?”

  “I don’t know, Jo. I couldn’t even hazard a guess anymore at what he’s going to do or what he’s capable of. The fact is, we have to hold out until tomorrow evening. Until then, we should try to avoid taking risks wherever possible.”

  “But if he’d go that far, wouldn’t he have—” The doorbell rings, stopping Joanna midsentence. We look at each other, as if each of us thought the other must know who it is. Joanna is about to turn away, but I put my hand on her arm.

  “Wait,” I say, quietly. “Don’t go to the door, I’m going upstairs to see who it is.”

  I sneak through the hall and up the stairs, carefully but swiftly, taking two steps at a time. As I go reach the window in the bathroom, the bell rings again. I tentatively open the curtain a tiny bit, just enough so I can peer down through the gap.

  Two men wearing jeans and short jackets are standing outside the front door. I don’t know either of them, I’m certain of that.

  “Who is it?” Joanna whispers from behind me.

  “No idea. Maybe it’s those policemen again? Could you take a look and see if you recognize them?”

  She comes over to the window, takes a look outside, and shakes her head. “No. I’ve never seen them before.”

  “They could be Gabor’s men. Nadine must have blabbed, and now they want to check if you’re still at home.”

  “And what are they going to do if I don’t open up?”

  I look down again, just in time to glimpse the two men disappearing around the corner. “They’re leaving.”

  “Thank goodness.” Joanna slumps down on top of the closed toilet lid. I turn to face her. “But that doesn’t mean they’re really gone. Maybe they’ll be back again later, and maybe this time they won’t settle for just ringing the doorbell. We should definitely hide.”

  Joanna looks around the bathroom as though searching for a suitable hideout. “Where, though? If someone does break in, won’t they search the entire house for us … for me? Not to mention…” She looks at me candidly. I can guess what she’s about to say. “Aren’t you scared I might try to harm you again?”

  Should I be? I want to ask her in return, but I realize her answer would remain the same: she’d never knowingly try to hurt me, but she can’t vouch for any of her actions at the minute.

  “I just said we should try to avoid risks wherever possible,” I tell her instead. “So this is something that can’t be helped.”

  Joanna doesn’t reply. But what could she really answer to that, anyway? She wanted to kill me the other night, and neither she nor I know if, or when, she’ll try again.

  I can tell that I’m in for a sleepless night.

  “OK then, let’s head back downstairs and think about where we’ll spend the next hours.”

  The pantry, in contrast to the basement, is warm and dry, and it’s proved successful as a hiding place so far. Of course, someone searching for Joanna would take a look in there as well, but if things were moved around a little, it could still work.

  I open the door to the narrow, long room and switch on the light. As I look at the tall freezer standing at the back, an idea comes to mind.

  “Do you want us to hide in there?” Joanna asks from behind me. “That’s the first place they’d look.”

  “Yes, but if we turn the freezer around so the front is facing the entrance and put one of the shelving units beside it, we can section off a small part of the room. It’s probably not going to be very comfortable, but I think if anyone looks in from the door, they wouldn’t notice that the room goes on a bit farther behind the freezer and the shelves.”

  Joanna takes a look around the rear part of the room. “That could work.”

  “All right. Let’s move the stuff.”

  It takes us about ten minutes to move and position the freezer and the shelving unit to create a space behind it, roughly five feet in length to the back wall. The room is about six and a half feet in width, now all blocked by the shelf and freezer apart from a narrow gap of less than an inch. We stack supplies and boxes onto the shelves to leave as few gaps as possible, then leave things a little askew. Squeezing through the gap on the side is just about manageable. I ask Joanna to give it a try. Then, together, we pull the shelving unit straight again. Once we’re done, I turn off the light and go to stand by the entrance to the room.

  Perfect. You’d think the freezer and the shelf were backed up right against the rear wall in the storeroom. It was unnoticeable that, beyond it, the room goes on a bit farther.

  “It’s better than I’d expected. And if we put a few blankets on the floor, it might even be halfway comfortable.”

  “I hope all of this won’t turn out just to be a pointless exercise,” Joanna says from behind the shelving.

  Shortly after midnight, we’re huddled up inside our hideout on top of some wool blankets. At first I was planning to bring some sort of weapon, but then I discarded the idea. I have to share this narrow space with Joanna after all, and there are times when it’s better not to tempt fate.

  I’ve left the door to the storeroom wide open, so as not to create any sort of impression that there might be a hiding place here. We’re plunged into total darkness. The blinds on the kitchen and living room windows are fully closed, so not even a glimmer of light can get through, making the storeroom all the more dark.

  Although we’re both totally exhausted, neither of us even contemplates going to sleep in the first hour. We don’t talk much. Every now and then, one of us strikes up a conversation, only for it to fizzle out after just a few sentences. The reason why we’re cowering here on the floor, in the farthermost corner of our storeroom, doesn’t get mentioned for quite some time.

  After a while, Joanna feels about for my hand and moves closer to me. Ever since she attacked me, her touch has been evoking such contradictory feelings within me that I shrink away from her almost instinctively.

  “I can’t take much more of this, Erik.”

  I don’t ask exactly what she means by that, deciding instead that her words apply to the entire fear-inducing situation.

  “I know. I feel the same way.”

  “Just tonight and then less than a day. We can manage that, can’t we? And then we’ll be safe within a few hours. The people coming to pick us up are professionals. My father’s entrusted them with my life several times. Even back when I was still a child.”

  “That’s good to know,” I say, and feel her shifting around next to me, changing position. There’s a rustling sound. I wish I could see if she’s reaching for something, a bottle for instance, or a can of something. The shelf in front of us is full of that kind of stuff.

  With all my concentration, I listen for sounds that might let me ascertain what Joanna’s doing, but everything’s gone quiet again.

  After a few minutes, her breathing steadies. She’s fallen asleep. I lean against the wall, my back hurting. A short while later, Joanna shifts down a little and rests her head on my thigh. I close my eyes. It makes no difference; the darkness stays the same.

  * * *

  They arrive just before three.

  I hear them as they enter th
e kitchen, conversing at a whisper. How did they manage to break the door open that quietly?

  The pressure from Joanna’s head on my legs lifts. She’s heard them too. I carefully feel around for her, find her arm, and gently squeeze it to let her know I’m awake.

  I hear a rustling that’s hard to place, then more whispering.

  A nervous glimmer of light appears in the room, quickly dances to and fro, then lingers on the shelving unit, where it dissipates into thin strips of light that cut through the gaps between the boxes, the crates, and the packaging, drawing patterns in the darkness.

  My heart is pounding so violently that I’m scared it can be heard all the way to the kitchen. Joanna’s hand feels around for me with erratic movements, digs into the flesh of my forearm so tightly that I barely manage to stifle a gasp. I can’t help but hold my breath. Two seconds, three … then the cone of light swivels away from the shelves. I let the air exit my lungs very cautiously, and am just about to breathe a sigh of relief when suddenly the light gets brighter. The flashlight isn’t pointing directly at the shelf anymore, but the beam is still darting around the storeroom.

  Steps, barely audible, approach the spot where we’re cowering. I break out in a sweat. If they’ve found us, it’s all over. They’ve come to kill Joanna, there’s no doubt about that. They’ll be surprised when they see me squatting on the floor back here as well, but it’ll be their chance to finish the job they didn’t succeed at a few times before.

  Then again, the fact that they don’t expect me to be here could be an advantage. I’m not going to make it easy for them. They’re going to have to pull the shelving unit aside, and while they’re trying that I’ll jump up and throw myself against it with all my strength. It will keel over and, with some luck, bury them underneath. Maybe I’ll be able to use the moment of surprise and tackle them. Maybe … I hear more steps, brisker now, less cautious. The second guy. He approaches quickly, stops just in front of us.

  Was I really just thinking about tackling those two? I’m frozen in fear.

  “There’s nothing down here.” A hissing voice. “What are you still doing down here? Come on, let’s go upstairs.”

  “Calm down. I’m just having a look at all the good stuff they’re hoarding down here.”

  “Come on already.”

  It gets darker; the flashlight appears to be aimed at the exit. The steps fade, get quieter, then vanish completely. The last shimmer of light goes with them.

  Darkness. Silence. Joanna’s grip loosens, a relief. I hear her inhaling deeply, then she completely releases my arm.

  They didn’t find us. They’re still in the house, but they were just standing right in front of us and didn’t see us. There’s nothing I’ve felt before that can compare to the relief I feel now. But there’s something else. Something I absolutely have to tell Joanna once those two have cleared off. If they don’t end up finding us after all.

  I’m just having a look at all the good stuff they’re hoarding down here, one of them just said. He didn’t say what she’s hoarding, he said what they’re hoarding. So they know Joanna had not been living here by herself. It’s not even clear to me why I find it so important to point this out to her, so important that I would notice it right now, in our current situation. Especially since she herself probably knows by now that we have to have known each other for some time. But there are still so many damn inconsistencies. The fact that all of my stuff has vanished from the house, for instance.

  Neither of us dare to say a word while the men are still in the house. Then I finally hear the dull thudding sound of the heavy front door being pulled shut. They’re gone.

  “That was close,” I gasp.

  Joanna’s hand finds my forearm again, but her touch is more tender this time. “Do you think they’re gone for good?”

  “Yes. They didn’t find you, so why would they stick around? But maybe they’re sitting outside in their car, waiting for you to get back.”

  She leans against me, tentatively; she probably expects me to push her away again any second now. “Are we staying here for the rest of the night?”

  “Yes. I don’t think they’ll be back tonight but who knows…”

  “Sure. Who knows.” She takes a deep breath. “Erik? I still don’t remember our time together. But I’m feeling more and more comfortable when you’re close.”

  “Try to get some sleep now,” I say, and close my eyes.

  37

  I think it was Erik moving that woke me, but it could also have been the pain in my neck.

  I wasn’t sleeping deeply, and it doesn’t take three seconds before the situation we’re in rushes back to my mind. Strangers were in our house last night. And they nearly found us.

  I struggle to straighten up; it’s not just my neck that’s hurting, the rest of my body, too, is paying me back for the night on the hard floor, wool blankets or not.

  I have no idea how late it is. Since we’ve been keeping all the curtains and shutters closed, we’ve lost all sense of time. But according to the display on my phone, it’s six thirty in the morning, so there’s less than twelve hours to go until the phone call that will save us.

  With the pale light from the screen I see that Erik is awake too. Did he even sleep at all? Would he dare to, in my presence?

  Just before I turn off the light again, I see him rubbing his eyes. I listen in the darkness. The sounds of the dawning day make their way in to us. Cars driving past, the wind. Deceptive normality.

  “What time is it?” Erik’s voice sounds throaty, he must’ve slept after all.

  “Almost half past six. We should…”

  The sound of my phone vibrating interrupts me. I’m still holding it in my hand, and for one irrational moment I hope my father has somehow managed to defy the laws of nature, that he’s somehow made the plane arrive in Germany in half the time.

  But it’s not his name which shows up on the display, it’s Ela’s.

  I press the button to reject the call; I need to be properly awake before I can act well enough to convince her I still haven’t heard from Erik. And I want to be sure that there’s no one still in the house.

  If there is, they will figure out now, as we push the shelving unit to the side, that they’re not alone.

  But everything remains silent. No footsteps, no voices.

  “Wait in the kitchen,” whispers Erik, as he takes a look in the living room. “I’ll check upstairs.”

  He is back downstairs within five minutes, and finds me huddled up on the couch. “There’s no one here, I’ve checked everywhere.” He smiles at me, but his face is deeply lined with fatigue again. “Should I make us some breakfast?”

  Before I can answer, my phone vibrates again. Ela again, this time I pick up.

  “Morning,” I say, “I’m sorry, I didn’t hear the telephone earlier—”

  “Jo!” Just one syllable, but even that is barely comprehensible. Ela isn’t just crying, she’s sobbing loudly into the phone, barely able to catch her breath. My first thought—that she has confirmation that Erik is one of the victims—is, of course, complete nonsense. After all, he’s standing right in front of me, with a questioning frown on his face, pointing at my phone.

  It takes me a while to understand what he wants. The loudspeaker.

  Now Ela’s despair fills the entire living room. “What happened?” I say tentatively, and then, even though it makes me feel bad: “Is it about Erik? Do you have any news?”

  She gradually gets ahold of herself. “No. No, still nothing, but—” She struggles to breathe. “Nadine is dead. I just found out. Her mother called me.”

  I can see Erik grasping for something to hold on to, his left hand finding the back of one of the barstools, putting his right hand over his mouth, as if he wants to make sure he doesn’t make a sound.

  “Oh my God.” There’s no need for me to act devastated. I wasn’t particularly fond of Nadine, but then I hardly knew her … which brings me to the question of h
ow the news could reach Ela. A moment later I answer my own question: Ela and Erik have been friends for years, and he was with Nadine for a long time—so of course they knew each other.

  “How did it happen?” Boiler, car accident?

  “She killed herself.” Ela begins to cry harder again. “She jumped out of her bedroom window. On the ninth floor. The doctors said she died immediately.”

  I can’t drag my gaze away from Erik, who is clearly using all of his strength to keep his composure. Is he thinking of how he threw Nadine out of the house? Was that their good-bye, their last encounter? Hopefully not.

  “That’s … unbelievable,” I stammer. “She was just here. Yesterday. She wanted to know if there was any news about Erik.”

  At the other end of the line, Ela takes a shaky breath. “Her mother thinks that’s why she did it. Because she thought Erik was dead. Apparently she had been getting her hopes up again recently.”

  I find myself wanting to turn the loudspeaker off, because it’s obvious how hard each of Nadine’s words is hitting Erik.

  “I spoke to her on the phone myself yesterday,” she continues, “and she was … sick with worry, just like I was, but not despairing. Do you think she found out something about Erik during the night? Is it possible that she knows more than we do?”

  Oh yes, that’s entirely possible, but in a different way to how Ela means it. I would even bet on it. “Was there a suicide note?”

  “No. The police didn’t find one.”

  Of course not. How could they have? Had our two nocturnal intruders made a stop at Nadine’s place after coming here? Or perhaps they had been there first.

  I try to remember our conversation from yesterday—Nadine was afraid of the Islamists and was saying something about Project Phoenix … but I was far too busy trying to get rid of her to listen in any detail.

  “If you spoke to Nadine on the phone recently,” says Ela, interrupting my thoughts, “then it’s possible her mother might call you too. She’s calling everyone Nadine had contact with in the past few days, she wants to understand, why…” Ela’s voice fails her again.