From the top pocket of my backpack, I pulled out a headlamp and put it around my forehead. I turned it on and immediately the jagged silhouettes of bare tree branches were chased away by the cold light of the bulb.
I avoided looking at Manfred’s face and busied myself with new tasks – putting on a pair of gloves, taking out an empty bottle I had brought from our recycling box with the fingerprints carefully wiped clean. I pulled out the cork I had wedged only halfway in. I moved round to Manfred’s other side and knelt beside him. Picking his arm up by his sleeve, I laid his hand over the top of the bottle, patting his fingers around the green glass, flopping like a ragdoll.
I still couldn’t look at his face.
I laid the bottle near his feet. Wiping the corkscrew, I carefully fed the cork back onto the spiral, pressed his fingers onto the handle and placed it within his reach. Picking up the other empty Ripasso wine bottle, still vaguely warm from the fire, I put it carefully into my backpack.
I took out the empty blister sheets from the Quilonorm and Co-Dafalgan and slipped them into the pocket of Manfred’s jacket. I couldn’t reach Manfred’s beaker without disturbing his body. I didn’t think I had touched it, but I didn’t want to touch his other arm to move it. I didn’t want to touch him ever again. It was a risk, but I left it beside him. I tucked my own wine beaker into my backpack.
Finally, I took a last look at Manfred’s sleeping face. My headlight flashed across his features. I thought I saw his eyes flicker, and drew in my breath. The beam shone into his face, its brightness casting a pale, waxy sheen on his skin. No movement. My eyes burned hot with tears, and I almost reached to shake him awake.
My old companion, guilt, had accompanied me every step of this journey and my constant uncertainty had made me want to backtrack at every corner. But on my shoulder sat the devil of determination to keep my family together, a simmering anger at this person lying on the ground who had stolen something precious from our lives and caused such anguish and pain. I blinked away the smarting tears as a last thin wisp of blue smoke seeped up from the fire pit and my throat caught on the acrid smell of cooling ash.
Hoisting the backpack onto my shoulders, I hiked carefully down the mountain. The descent in the dark was a little more treacherous, but less breathlessly demanding. Once I had left the clearing, I wanted to be away from Manfred as quickly as possible, but exercised caution. My ankle ached from keeping my balance on the steep, rolling pebbles and gravel in the dark, the limited light from my headlamp disorientating me. I wanted to run, but knew I risked an accident if I wasn’t careful. I was aware of a dull ache in my injured ankle. The echo of my own footsteps on the path made me turn back constantly, thinking Manfred had awoken and was hurrying down the mountain after me.
When I reached the bottom of the steep hill, I turned off my headlamp as I came out from the cover of the trees. I stopped and waited for my breathing to steady, eyes and ears concentrated towards the forest, listening for the sound of following footsteps. The distant hoot of an owl carried to me on a hiss of wind through the pines.
The path took me round the back of a campground, closed now after the season, before I reached the hardtop surface of the narrow asphalt road we had walked in on. It was a moonless night and my eyes ached with the strain of picking out the stony path. I kept my headlamp extinguished and allowed starlight and the ambient light from the streets and houses across the lake to guide my way back to the main road. Once onto the smooth black tarmac, my hiking boots felt cumbersome, cloddy. The walk home was never-ending.
I lay down in bed as carefully as possible so as not to wake Simon. It was late, but I didn’t turn on the light to check the time. My eyes, sore with fatigue and gritty from dried-up tears, felt like they would superglue together the moment I closed them. A faint sooty smell drifted about my head. I thought the noise of folding back the down-filled duvet might disturb Simon from his slumber, but he lay still on his side, facing away from me as usual.
I lay on my back, my tired neck grateful for the coolness of the pillow beneath. It was a kernel of relief for my aching body to sink into nothingness. I calmed my breathing until all I could hear was the faint whir of a running tap somewhere in the building.
Then a swish of the duvet, and Simon’s hand found my palm lying downwards on the mattress. A pathway between two bodies, a bridge across the abyss. He squeezed my hand briefly then patted it gently twice. In his semiconscious state, he wordlessly rolled back onto his side, returning to the comfort of sleep. The simple gesture caused my throat to close and my lips to press together involuntarily in the dark. I brought my hand to my face and clasped my mouth shut to prevent the threatened sob from escaping.
This signal of truce, of regained faith, of something saved. The simple gesture delivered a sliver of hope, a seed. I should grasp this, after weeks of feeling wretched and after a night of feeling the heaviness of evil taking over. This primeval thing I had calculatingly carried out to protect my family might eventually come back and haunt me. There were enough people who knew it could lead to this, even if they believed I wouldn’t be capable of such a thing.
The Samaritan Alice.
Chapter Forty-Seven
Glancing in the mirror, I hurried anxiously to the door. The chiming of the bell still echoed in the hall. Several restless nights had taken their toll. Dark shadows pooled beneath my eyes. My left lower lid culminated in a puffy package, giving the impression I had been crying. I opened the door with a sharp intake of breath as I looked up into the face of Reto Schmid.
‘Frau Reed, guten Tag,’ he said. I thought he might click his heels. His use of High German was brusque. Instead he offered his hand in greeting. I tried to make my grip firm, belying my uncertainty. Chilly air blew up the stairwell from the main entrance, temporarily held open against a gust of wind. Snow was on its way. I could almost smell it. Nervousness I didn’t want to convey sluiced through my body.
‘Grüezi, Herr Schmid,’ I said carefully, holding the edge of the door in my left hand, a barrier between the policeman and my home. He rubbed his hands together, hunching a little. He was alone.
‘May I please come in?’
His voice was neutral, not unfriendly, not overly officious.
I led him to the kitchen, where an array of half-prepared lunch articles were scattered across the worktop, and pointed to a chair for him to sit.
‘I hope you don’t mind, I’m running a little late,’ I said. ‘My boys will be home soon. I can work while we talk.’
I needed the excuse to turn from him, to avoid eye contact. He mustn’t read what was lurking in them. It was good to have my hands occupied. I thought I knew why he was here. But I mustn’t show him I knew that.
‘I’m sorry, I see you are busy,’ he said.
Apologetic, that’s a good sign. I picked up a carrot, reached for the peeler.
‘I thought you would like to be informed about the death of Manfred Guggenbuhl,’ he said officiously.
My hand flew involuntarily to my mouth. Eyes now wide. Part of me wanted to think that Manfred was peacefully sleeping forever in the forest, caught in the comfortable illusion that he and I would be bound together forever. I felt sick, needed to sit down, but couldn’t let this policeman see the guilt that flooded through me. I hoped he would read my reaction as one of any person learning about the death of someone they knew. I tried to think of something appropriate to say.
‘How? W… when?’
I was unsure of the emotion I should be displaying. My role as actress forgotten, I was horrified my terrible deed had worked, and had now been confirmed.
Alice the murderess.
My heart thumped, my face burned, and a new wave of guilt almost made me present my wrists to the man who now sat at my kitchen table. But the chattering of the boys coming home for lunch in the distance brought me abruptly back to my sense of duty. I could see them ambling down the driveway through the open kitchen window.
I did this terrible th
ing for them.
This silent justification, repeated as a mantra since returning home three nights ago. It was true; I would do anything to protect them. My eyes moistened and a twisted smile played on my lips as I watched the boys. Schmid cleared his throat.
‘Yes, well, I should emphasise that this is a human tragedy, but I did not realise exactly how you would feel,’ he said as I quickly packed away my smile.
The boys’ voices were getting closer. They were arguing about something. I could hear Oliver clarifying a point in Swiss German while Leon answered him in English.
‘It seems Herr Guggenbuhl has taken his own life,’ he said.
My mouth opened to ask another question, but the policeman continued before I could speak.
‘I cannot give you any details at this time. You should know that you may be questioned over the next week…’
My eyes widened and Schmid’s hand came up in a calming gesture.
‘…because you filed a, how do you say, stalking complaint about the victim some time ago.’
The boys were now in the porch downstairs. I pressed my lips together and looked pleadingly at the policeman, shaking my head to indicate I didn’t want my sons to hear this conversation. He narrowed his eyes, but without explanation understood the silent entreaty not to reveal such horrors to the children. Standing up, he left the kitchen and walked down the hallway, pulling a card from his pocket like a door-to-door salesman.
‘Are you all right, Frau Reed?’ Schmid asked, gazing back at me curiously as he held out the card.
I could feel a flush at my throat, must have looked flustered.
‘If you need to talk to me or any of my colleagues, this is the best number to use.’
I nodded as I took the card from him and slid it into the back pocket of my jeans. The boys were at the bottom of the steps. I couldn’t face the curious teenage questions I knew I would have to answer with layers of lies, especially in front of him. Schmid hesitated.
‘He will not be bothering you any more. I think you will be relieved to know this.’
‘Yes, thank you, of course. Goodbye,’ I said hurriedly, shaking his hand briefly, wanting him to leave as quickly as possible.
I felt heady with both lightness and weight. The lightness because I was free, but all the same knowing I was bound to the weight of deception that might take months, years, to fade.
I watched the boys coming up the stairs. Oliver’s mouth stretched to a letterbox rectangle, showing gritted teeth, and Leon gaped with open curiosity at the officer who threw them a jovial ‘Hoi, Zäme’ as he passed them on the way out. Oliver cast a look over his shoulder as Schmid walked out of the door, remembering this wasn’t the first time the policeman had been to our home.
‘Whoa, Mum, what was he doing here? Someone been murdered in the neighbourhood?’ Leon asked.
I blanched, swayed on the spot, and laughed forcefully.
‘He was just making some inquiries,’ I said, noting Oliver relax. The nightmare was truly over. But I was dizzy with the effort of thinking up another story. I walked to the counter in the kitchen, facing away from them, and drew my fingers across the perspiration on my cheek.
‘I thought maybe toe-rag here got caught shoplifting again.’ Leon turned to his brother as he sat at the table. ‘Du bist so behindert.’
‘Leon!’ My voice rang a little too loudly in the confines of our low-ceilinged kitchen. ‘How many times have I told you not to say that? Do not call your brother, or anyone for that matter, retarded.’
I brandished a spoon, flicking pearls of salad dressing onto the floor tiles. My retort was ignored, and the fraternal bickering escalated. But Leon’s teasing shifted the focus of the conversation, and rather than shutting down their argument, I let them continue, deciding only to intervene if the exchange became physical.
It did the trick. They were distracted enough that the memory of the policeman in our home was already buried in the backs of their minds.
I thought you would like to be informed of the death of Manfred Guggenbuhl.
The officer’s announcement still echoed in my thoughts. The typical sterility of his speech gave no clue as to what was running through his mind. His steady look could have been one of concern, and he was likely gauging my reaction to his news. I had been glad of the arrival of the boys, which ensured his visit would be brief.
Only half-listening to the boys’ conversation at the table evolving on both sides to Swiss German, I continued to prepare their lunch. I pulled a tray of Chäs-chüechli out of the oven and slid a carrot salad onto the table. As I opened the cupboard to fetch two plates for their meal, my gaze flickered to the window. At the end of the farm road in the distance I could see the dead limbs of the half-burned tree, and a flush crept up my throat.
‘Hey, Mum, is it ready? Are you daydreaming or what?’
I turned. Both boys looked at me expectantly, Oliver’s eyes on me, Leon’s on the plate of food I was about to deliver.
‘Yes, sorry, here you go,’ I said absently.
‘Are you okay, Mum? Is it something that policeman said?’ Oliver asked carefully.
I couldn’t forget that his relationship with our local policeman was as precarious as my own. He hadn’t forgotten then. I ignored his question.
‘Bon appétit!’ I said over-cheerfully as Leon cut his first bite with the knife and fork, and Oliver picked up one of the little cheese quiches to eat with his hands.
‘You mean En guete!’ Leon stated before silencing conversation with a mouthful of food.
‘Hey, they say a big snowstorm is coming this afternoon. Maybe you should wear your snow-boots to school after lunch. And you’ll need hats. That wind is cold.’
I swallowed. Once again I relied on the indifference of a family routine, brighter on one side for the certain absence of a menace in our lives, darker on the other for the choking fibres of guilt that threatened to suffocate me.
‘It was about him, wasn’t it?’ Oliver hissed as he put his plate in the sink after the meal.
The noise of the cutlery against the plate made me jump. I had expected him to rush off and look for his gloves, but should have known him better. I placed my hand on his shoulder as he waited for an answer.
‘Oli, that man who was stalking me, who did those horrible things to you last week… he has died. He has committed suicide. He went into the forest and took too many pills… or something… He went to sleep and never woke up.’
I paused uneasily. The policeman hadn’t given me the details of how Manfred had died. I turned away and methodically placed the dirty crockery in the dishwasher. Oliver’s curiosity was understandable, but I’d already said too much for his young, fantasy-hungry mind.
‘He won’t be bothering us any more,’ I said with finality, hoping he wouldn’t ask any more details.
‘Mum, you didn’t tell Herr Schmid about what happened to me last week, did you?’ he hissed theatrically. ‘I thought we agreed you wouldn’t do that.’
I held my hands up in mock surrender.
‘No, Oli, I didn’t tell the policeman. Your secret is safe with me.’
His shoulders dropped with relief.
‘You must see if you can find your gloves as well, Oli. It’s going to be really cold later.’
But he wouldn’t let it go, and his eyes opened wide as he grabbed my arm.
‘He committed… Mum, do you mean… Was it the same man you saved on the bridge in spring? Was it the same man who was following us? Was it him? Oh…’
‘Yes, it was the same man. And I never told you, because I didn’t want you to worry. You’re too young to be concerned about things like that. I just wish… I wish he had taken his life earlier, before he hurt you,’ I said wistfully.
‘Mum – pills? What kind of pills? Do you think he did that because of me?’
‘No, no, Oli. It wasn’t your fault. You mustn’t think he did this thing because of you, because of us. I don’t know what pills he took. He
was already a sick man. We talked about it in April, remember? Many people who attempt suicide will go on to try and do it again. He was terribly unhappy, and you mustn’t ever blame yourself.’
‘It’s just that he didn’t seem… sad. He was definitely angry, somehow, especially at me, but not sad. One thing’s for sure, he was a freak. Maybe he should have seen a doctor,’ Oliver mused. ‘But freaks like that don’t belong in our world, do they, Mum?’
‘No, Oli, they don’t,’ I said as I bent down and slipped my hands around his waist.
I hugged him tightly, but he wriggled out of my grasp. I figured he was still feeling humiliated from his encounter with Manfred. The red marks on his back and hips had now turned to yellow bruises, but they were still a reminder to me of the sulphur of brutality.
‘Some of the kids might talk about it at school, especially as the man lived in the village. Perhaps it’s best you don’t talk about it, in case people ask you about what happened to you last week, okay, Oli? Much of this story is best left untold, otherwise you might have to answer a lot of questions.’
Oliver nodded wisely, thinking about his own reputation.
Chapter Forty-Eight
The hours waiting for Simon to come home that evening reminded me of the time I told him I was pregnant with Leon. That same nervous tension, no longer knowing if he approved of anything I told him now. Fifteen years ago, with the positive pregnancy test lying on the kitchen table, I had silently willed him to be excited. I was sure he would be thrilled, although we had said we would wait a few years before starting a family. I trusted his acceptance then, but there was always the underlying fear that the news would spur an unexpected reaction. This wasn’t all that different. But why I thought news of Manfred’s death would cause anything but relief, joy even, perplexed me. Perhaps it was because of the blurry confusion between fact and fiction building up in my head. But it felt good to finally be able to impart the news now Schmid had confirmed it. Simon had left for work that morning none the wiser.
Strangers on a Bridge Page 18
