‘Andi, what is it?’
‘I’m not telling,’ he replies, grinning.
‘You’re a shit, Andi.’ She gets off the bed, pads down the hall to the bathroom.
He hears the click of the light switch. He rolls to the side of the bed; he can see her elongated shadow across the hallway floor.
‘Meine?’ She comes out of the bathroom, forehead creased. ‘Does that mean “mine”?’
He laughs. ‘Of course it does, sweetie.’
‘I’m not yours, Andi.’ She comes back to the bed, pouting.
Fuck, she’s beautiful. ‘Yes, you are.’ He reaches for her hands and pulls her down to the bed. He kisses her, wraps his arms around her back. Squeezing, he hopes the tattoo is printing a mirror image onto his arm. ‘Right now you are, little sparrow.’
~
Once again, Andi had left by the time she woke. Her life was falling into a pattern, and she needed to hoist herself out. She showered; her muscles felt tight from lack of use. Back in the bedroom, she looked at the bedside table. It was empty: no key. She checked the floor. Nothing. The room suddenly seemed airless, as though it was holding out on her, knew more than she did. Still wrapped in a towel, she went into the hallway, the living room, the kitchen, scanning every surface. Her camera sat on the table where he had discarded it last night. She trailed down the hall to the front door and half-heartedly tried to open it. She already knew. It was deadlocked.
He must have left the key for her somewhere. He could not possibly have forgotten again. She went back to the bedroom and dressed, straightened the sheets on the bed, prolonging the moment before she would have to start searching in earnest. Knowing already what she would find. Kneeling on the floor she looked under the bed, the sea-grass matting digging into her palms and knees. Nothing.
In the kitchen she glanced about for a note, something to remind her that Andi had not forgotten about her. But it seemed she was trespassing in his life; there was no acknowledgement of her existence. He had simply forgotten to leave her a key. Sighing, she opened the fridge. Everything looked slightly different from what she was used to. As she tried to decipher the various labels on the condiments, she noted how much she relied on language. Without the words to guide her, to remind her of what she liked and disliked, she had to think carefully about the distinctions between cheddar and edam, raspberry and strawberry jam. Slicing bread, cheese and an apple, she arranged a breakfast plate, spooned out some of the condiments on the side. She attempted to conjure up Andi but could capture nothing other than a snatch of smile, the feel of his hands around her waist. It was so easy to forget — all she knew about him was so quickly in the past; in the present his absence pushed itself to the fore.
After she had eaten, she tried the front door once again. She felt a rush of anger towards him: how could he be so absent-minded? Somewhere between the bed and the stairs, did he just forget her altogether?
In the living room she flipped through the records, scanned the bookshelf. All of the titles were in German, which struck her as odd for an English teacher. She turned on the television, flicked through the channels. News and music videos. She turned it off, flinging the remote onto the couch. The air in the apartment seemed stale: while she knew this was only in her imagination, she wished she could open a window. She tried each one, yanked at the handles with increasing frustration, but none of them would cede. Nothing moved in the courtyard; she could not tell if it was windy outside. The sky had stripped itself of colour, presenting a uniform grey that offended no one. It was at least six hours until Andi would come home.
Stillness shrouds the morning. She wraps her hands around her coffee mug, shoulders hunched, her coffee uninviting and lukewarm. Who was this man, Luke Warm? A man of tepid personality, dull as dishwater? She is reminded of her childhood baths, splashing around with her sister. The same sister who would be wondering why she has not sent her any postcards. Does she, too, remember the baths? Turning into prunes, they used to say, holding up their puckered hands as the bathwater cooled. Clare is still always quietly relieved when her wrinkled skin smooths and returns to normal after a soaking.
She curls up on the windowsill. The glass is hard against her cheek and shoulder. An exhibition she had seen in a science museum as a child had suggested that glass was a liquid, falling with gravity as it performed its task of transparency. Its motion slowed to the point of being indiscernible to even the most attentive of gazes. She wishes that it was true, that eventually the glass would puddle on the sill, letting the outside in.
Unthinkingly, she picks at one of the scabs on her legs, letting her fingernails catch underneath it. She teases it, gently at first, then more and more insistently until it lifts free. The blood is sticky beneath her always dirty fingernails. When she goes to bed her nails are clean, yet she wakes to find dark moons beneath them, as though she has been gardening in the night. Andi’s nails are always white and a regular length, but hers are ragged, the skin around them dry and cracked. Years ago she would blame it on the darkroom chemicals. Now it is just a habit; she fidgets, picks and pulls. Sometimes Andi comes up behind her, wraps his arms about her, and she examines her fingers in comparison to his. His fingers are thicker, his palms wider. Her fingers look spindly next to his, the ends red and angry.
She watches the blood trickle down her thigh. Blood down a leg runs much slower than rain down a windowpane. She likes it when he is not here and she can see her body, blood sliding to escape. She will dress properly before he comes home, and when his hands run up her legs at night he will not say anything.
Leaving her sentry position by the window, she puts a record on the turntable. She lifts the arm and lets it drop; it bounces a little when it hits the record before settling in. The needle holds still as the vinyl spins. She is the needle. She is the constant in this equation. She holds herself straighter. She is the strong one — she is providing an essential service. She changes this world from being grooves on a disc, illegible to the casual observer, to being a symphony, a full house of sound and meaning.
In the bathroom she considers her reflection in the mirror. Her skin is pale, her face is tired, her hair is lank. But she is the needle. She raises her arms above her head. She can see the rosy blush of bruises on her upper arms. They look like splodges of paint. An abstract interpretation on her skin. She lowers her arms and, as her shoulders release their load, she feels the blood rush back to her hands.
If she is the needle, what does that make Andi? Is he the record, turning around and around? She imagines him spinning, arms outstretched, giggling like a child. No. He is the arm, holding her out over the world. He is grasping her tightly and letting her fingers drag along the surface. He is keeping her still and steady and just far enough away that she does not get hurt.
But she is terrified. The word hits her in the chest. She steps away from the mirror. Her reflection does not appear terrified, only glum. She moves back to the living room. Looking down at the turntable, she can see the blur of her reflected face. What if he lets go and she tumbles into the black whirling continuity of this record world? She imagines trying to stand up and being knocked back down, caught in a rip as the tide of all she knows goes out. If she is flung off the record, her body will hit the wall, slide down to the skirting boards. She will be left there, unnoticed, swept under the couch. She will become friends with the balls of dust, the lost change. Perhaps there is something to be said for being the needle in all of this.
~
She registered his shadow, a passing cloud bringing inclement weather.
‘Clare?’
She was not even sure she heard her name, but she watched his mouth form the shape. The stereo was turned up loud, his voice lost in drums and double bass. He ducked his face to hers, kissed her on the forehead, then crossed the room to the stereo and lifted the needle from the turntable.
‘How was your day?’
; She stayed lying on the couch, did not turn to face him. ‘It was pretty boring, Andi.’
He didn’t say anything, and she pulled herself into a sitting position, waited for his response. And when there was none, her words flew out, angrier than she expected.
‘You didn’t leave me a key! I’ve been here all day again.’ She could not help their force, her fury as pent up as herself.
‘But I did leave you a key! It’s in the drawer of the bedside table.’
The immediacy of his words stunned her into action, forced her to her feet. ‘What?’
‘I left a key in the table by the bed.’
But she checked, she was sure of it. She marched to the bedroom, opened the drawer. A silver key sat amongst its contents. ‘I’m sure I checked there.’
She remembered pulling open the drawer, lifting the papers to see if there was anything beneath. Didn’t she? But there was the key. She faced him, embarrassment rising.
Andi leaned against the doorjamb, his top lip curled into the slightest of smirks. Pushing himself from the doorway, he lifted his shoulders in an exaggerated shrug as he walked towards her. ‘Maybe you did not look hard enough.’
They spent the evening in bed, Andi occasionally going to the living room to change the record. When he did, she slid open the bedside-table drawer, checked to see that the key was there, and closed it again. She did this three times before she forced herself to stop, tucked her hands under her body to bar them from reaching for the handle.
Andi was in the shower when she woke. She pulled on one of his shirts, took the key from the drawer and slipped it into the chest pocket. In the kitchen she began making coffee; she could hear him singing in the shower.
‘Hey, what are you doing up so early?’
‘I just wanted to see you in the daylight.’ She handed him a cup of coffee, hoisted herself up onto the kitchen bench.
‘You will see me all day tomorrow. It’s Saturday.’
‘I know.’
He slurped some coffee before shrugging apologetically and pouring the rest of it down the sink. ‘Sorry, I’m running late. I’ve got to go.’ He rinsed out his cup, the drops sounding dull pings against the metal sink. ‘Now, the key is in the drawer, okay? Make sure you lock the door from the outside after you leave — it’s better that way.’
He pulled her towards him, placed her legs about his waist. She could feel the sharp edges of the key digging into her breast as he kissed her goodbye. She hoped he could not feel the same. His tongue jutted into the corners of her mouth, and desire darted between her legs.
‘I will see you tonight. Have fun exploring the city.’ And he was out the door, key turning in the lock, and his footsteps ringing down the stairs.
Sliding off the bench, she tried to ignore the wave of loneliness that threatened to engulf her. Perhaps sticking around in Berlin had been a bad idea; she wasn’t looking for this kind of dependency.
She slowly made the bed, picked clothes up from the floor. She should do some washing, contemplated lugging her clothes down to the nearest laundromat. But life had slipped too far into domesticity already, so she took off Andi’s shirt, pulled on clothes of her own, and headed to the front door.
The key did not fit in the lock. She tried it again. Not even the tip would go in. Maybe it was just stiff because it was newly cut. She manoeuvred the key every possible way. It was the wrong key.
She let her bag fall to the ground and ran back to the bedroom and wrenched open the drawer. No key. She pulled the drawer out from the table and upended it on the bed. Nothing.
Shit.
She ran back to the front door, tried the key again, but it did not fit. Why didn’t she leave with him this morning? She knew something was not right, she just knew. Back in the bedroom she picked up each item from the drawer and shook it as though the proper key might appear, the rabbit from the hat, but there was no magic there.
‘Fuck!’ She threw herself back on the bed. ‘Fuck, fuck, fuck!’
This could not be happening. It must have been a mistake. Andi had just left the wrong key: there was no need to panic. But it was more than that, she knew it was. She needed to speak to him but she didn’t have his number. Why hadn’t they swapped numbers? Maybe she could call him at his school. What was the name of it? She was sure he’d mentioned it; there must be a telephone directory she could look it up in — she would recognise the name when she saw it. This thought propelled Clare from the bed, and she grabbed her phone from her backpack. It was still flat, so she rummaged in her pack for the charger, pulling it out through the tangled mess of clothes. She plugged it into the socket, impatient for the screen to light up with its welcoming note, its friendly chimes and helping hands reaching across to each other. With soothing familiarity it did all of those things — then flashed a stop sign at her. Insert SIM card. Shit. She flipped the phone over, pulled its casing apart. The slot was empty.
Surely he had not taken her SIM card? There must be some explanation. She removed the battery, took out the memory card, shook the phone as though to force sense into it. Maybe the card had just fallen out somewhere. Maybe she had taken it out. Maybe he took the card because he wanted to swap it for a German one, wanted to be able to call her more cheaply. But as her excuses got more convoluted, the facts stubbornly refused to change. He had left her the wrong key. He had taken her SIM card. She was locked in an apartment, and nobody knew she was there.
She sat on the floor and dropped her head in her hands. What the fuck was she going to do? She thought back over the last couple of days, sifted through her memories for some kind of sign, something to say she was warned, that Andi was not all he seemed. But the more she thought about it, the more ludicrous the situation became. Andi would not do this! It could not be deliberate. There must be some kind of misunderstanding. It was just the wrong key. She needed to calm down. Yesterday she must not have looked hard enough; she must not have opened that drawer. She had only herself to blame.
She felt like she had spent a lifetime in the apartment. She had slept all of the day before yesterday. And the door was locked the day before that. Three days she had spent here alone: it was too many for coincidences.
Her head was thumping, and she lifted it from her hands, looked about the room, wanted it to melt away. As she stood up from the floor, her vision blacked and she swayed, tried not to fall. Sweat broke out in the small of her back and at the nape of her neck, and her stomach twisted and rollicked as the thoughts swarmed unhindered through her mind. He saw her reading and he offered her those strawberries. He was there in the bookshop reading the book she had looked at the day before. He found her at the station and he wouldn’t let her leave. But even as she made this list, she knew that it was not the whole truth. This was Andi! She had come willingly. She had left and come back again; she had not been forced to do anything. And she liked him — she was a good judge of these things. But the facts would not leave her alone. She had slept with someone she barely knew and now she was stuck.
Fuck this. She ran to the front door and banged on it with her fists. ‘Andi! Let me out! Can anybody hear me? Let me out! Please!’
What was it in German? Did it matter? Was ‘help’ universal? It should be. Like Control-Z. Undo. She wanted to go back a level to a time when flirting with an attractive stranger on a street corner was okay. Because it still felt like a game. Surely it was some kind of game?
‘Fuck you, Andi! Let me out of here! Let me out!’
When she stopped pounding, she heard the silence. There were no shuddering pipes, no footsteps above. No television or radio murmurs from the neighbouring apartments. Up five flights of stairs and not a sign of life. No open doors, no blue television light, no music, no neighbours. Nothing.
Shit. She leaned back against the hallway wall, its cool plaster surface held her up for a moment before she fell in a
n ungainly heap on the floor, and it was here the tears overtook her.
‘Why me?’ The question bobbed, a lone duck amongst the sobs pooling in her mouth. She was pathetic. She was the most hopeless she had ever been. She gulped down her sob, wishing Andi was there to comfort her. This was why this could not be happening. It was just a series of weird coincidences. This was Andi; he was not that type of man. And she was not that kind of woman.
In the living room she crossed to the window. Leaves huddled along the courtyard walls, too tentative to venture into the expanse of the yard. One of the windows, no, two of the windows of the apartments opposite were broken. The building was falling apart. What the fuck had she gotten herself into?
II
‘Clare?’ He calls her name out to the apartment and braces himself for her response. Nothing. But she must be here. He hangs his jacket on the hook in the hallway and walks into the living room. ‘Clare?’
The glow of her cigarette in the darkness gives her away. He switches on the light, and there she is, sitting on the windowsill, hugging her knees, her face turned away from him.
‘You didn’t leave me the key.’ She doesn’t look at him.
He takes a measured breath. He must approach this with care. ‘I left you a key.’ There, that’s not a lie.
‘It was the wrong key.’ She is not accusing him: she is simply stating facts. This is a good sign — she does not blame him. ‘And you’ve taken my SIM card.’
He had hoped she wouldn’t notice — her phone was flat. It is just a precaution until they work out an agreement.
‘I wanted to make sure you would be here when I got back.’ He crosses the room, watching the smoke rise from her cigarette. It climbs the window, curls towards the blinking television tower.
‘I would have been here.’ She stubs out her cigarette. She doesn’t seem too upset.
Encouraged, he steps forward and tentatively pats her arm before enclosing her in a hug. ‘I just wanted to make sure, Clare. I couldn’t bear the thought of coming home and you being somewhere else.’
Berlin Syndrome Page 8
