And then it happens. It is such an ordinary, everyday sight that at first I don’t realise what it means: the cabin door is closed and the steps are wheeled away.
I frown. This is all wrong. That’s the plane that was supposed to bring Philip home, but Philip hasn’t appeared yet and someone has wheeled the steps away—how is he supposed to get off the plane? I stare at the shut door: no Philip. No Philip.
Somebody grabs my elbow. I barely register the physical contact, but I start slightly all the same. The little group has reached us; reluctantly, I turn away from the cabin door to face them.
Where is Philip?
Why wasn’t he on board?
What’s the matter with him?
Has something happened to him?
Nothing can have happened to him; it can’t have done, not after all he’s been through.
The dark-haired man and the tall blonde woman are almost upon us. Mr Hansen says something to me, but I don’t understand. I’m only just beginning to register the noise and chaos around me. ‘There he is,’ Mr Hansen repeats.
I don’t understand and follow his gaze, helpless, distraught. The photographers’ shouts grow louder: ‘Mr Petersen! Mr Petersen!’ And in that instant, the stranger with the dark hair raises his arm in greeting, gives a brief wave in the direction of the press photographers—and then turns his attention to me. I feel his gaze weighing on me and can only stand there. I still don’t understand, but I feel that something is expected of me, a few words, some reaction—anything. But I can only stand there, my head buzzing. Something is going dreadfully wrong here. Massively wrong. I stand there, my shoulders hunched, as if to protect myself from a gale that only I can feel. The Somebody at my side fills my silence, saying: ‘Mr Petersen, I am Wilhelm Hansen. On behalf of all the team I would like to say: Welcome back.’
And the man says: ‘Thank you, Mr Hansen.’
His voice is low and rasping. It is the voice of a stranger.
The world stands still. The laws of time and space no longer apply. Weightlessness. I look down and notice that my feet are no longer touching the ground; I stretch my toes, feeling for a foothold, but find nothing. I am floundering. I try to cling to something but everything else is floating too: objects, people. At first I am only a few centimetres above the ground, then suddenly a whole metre, two metres, ten. I flail my arms and legs, but there is nothing I can get hold of—no resistance; only emptiness. I am rising, higher and higher, as high as treetops, as high as skyscrapers, slowly and inexorably, while beneath me the world grows smaller and smaller.
Then, all of a sudden, gravity is back and I fall. The world hurtles towards me; I come down hard.
And here I am again, back on the airfield, my feet on the ground.
The stranger is standing in front of me. He looks at me expectantly. Then, when I make no sign of reacting, he approaches me in silence, his movements jerky and robotic—he’s not like a person, I think, he’s like an automaton—and presses me to him. I give a gasp of alarm and try to back away, but can’t. It’s as if I’m paralysed. The stranger doesn’t let go.
I stare at the man before me—stare into his face, looking for a sign of recognition, but find nothing. It isn’t that Philip was tall and strong, while this man is hardly bigger than me—nor is it the beard which covers his cheeks so that I have no way of knowing whether the stranger has dimples like Philip. It isn’t even the strange way in which this man moves.
It is his eyes, which lack all warmth. The hair on my neck stands on end. However exhausted the stranger may look, there is a disturbing energy emanating from him.
THAT. IS. NOT. PHILIP.
I am caught in a nightmare so grotesque that my brain can’t make sense of it.
Who is this man?
Why is he holding me so tight?
Why is everyone calling him Mr Petersen?
I shake my head like a shying horse.
Do they really think it’s Philip?
I can’t get my breath.
They really think it’s Philip. What’s going on here? I don’t understand. Why is he doing this? Who is this man? I’ve never seen him before in my life. Why is he here? Why is he pretending to be Philip? How can he have the impertinence to touch me, and where—where the hell is my husband?
I can’t get my breath, panicking, suddenly afraid that the stranger is going to squeeze the breath out of me, right here, in full view of everyone.
But then the man loosens his grip. I gasp for breath as bright spots spread at the edge of my field of vision, the first signs of a blackout. But no, I’m not going to black out now—I have to say something. It’s important, very important—but I can’t think straight, can’t speak, can’t find the words to express all my horror and shock, all the questions in my head. Feeling dazed, I try to choke out a protest, but the words that come out are the ones I’ve rehearsed.
‘It’s so good to have you back.’
The stranger smiles. It seems I have said exactly what he wanted to hear. Then he crouches down beside me and only now do I remember that I’m still holding on to Leo, whose little hand is glowing warm and damp in mine. He holds on tight, shooting me a worried glance when he realises that the stranger is trying to greet him. Misinterpreting my stern look, he lets go of my hand reluctantly and lets the stranger pick him up. My son in his arms, the stranger turns to the photographers. The flurry of flashes intensifies. I’m in a kind of trance. As if from far away, I hear the stranger saying he’s happy to be home. He’d like to thank everyone for coming, but he hopes they will grant him and his family the privacy they need to get back to their everyday lives.
I look around me. Is this a joke? It can’t be a joke—no one would be so cruel. Even so, I look around again, waiting for an explanation. A cold shudder runs down my back, from the nape of my neck to the base of my spine.
The people around me are looking at the stranger and smiling. The stranger is looking at me.
He isn’t smiling.
I look about me in desperation. I can’t be the only one who notices that this isn’t Philip! But then I examine the faces around me—the reporters, the officials—and I realise that I’m the only one here who actually knew Philip and knows what he looked like. There aren’t even any official photos of him, so these people don’t have a clue.
My legs give way. I stumble and only just manage to catch myself. I can’t collapse here—not in front of all these people, in front of my son, in front of the stranger.
‘Everything all right, Mrs Petersen?’ The tall blond woman from the plane sounds concerned.
I nod, but of course I’m not all right. Philip is still missing, and that man—the man holding my son and smiling, exhausted but satisfied, into the cameras, while the photographers go wild—that man is not my husband.
I shake my head again and step towards the stranger to take Leo away from him. Leo’s too big to be picked up in any case—it’s ridiculous, he’s eight years old—but at that moment the stranger sets him down. I pull Leo close, a little too abruptly, and he opens his eyes wide in surprise, but no one notices except him and me. All eyes are on the stranger. It makes me wild to hear them all calling him Philip. I’m still trying to gather my wits when the Foreign Ministry officials set off across the airfield towards the airport building, sweeping us along with them. The journalists throng behind us, and a few photographers overtake us at a run, to get a clear shot as we enter the building.
The stranger walks in front of me, talking to the white-haired woman who got off the plane with him. I look around frantically and find myself staring into a sea of unfamiliar faces. Where is Hansen? I have to speak to Hansen!
We’re surrounded by a crowd of reporters and I’m struggling to keep my panic in check, almost hyperventilating, at the same time trying to keep an eye on Leo, who has let go of my hand. A small gap opens up between the two men behind me and I see Hansen’s calm, dignified face. I cast a glance in Leo’s direction. The friendly blond woman who sp
oke to me earlier is walking with him. She bends down to him and says something, but in the way you speak to an adult, not a small child, and Leo replies, smiling proudly. He likes being treated like a big boy. There’s too much yelling going on around us and I can’t hear what they’re talking about, but Leo seems okay—that’s good. I turn and elbow my way through the crowd to talk to Hansen. Two men give me annoyed glances as I push past them, but they say nothing. Hansen looks at me with slightly raised eyebrows. I’m having so much trouble breathing that I can hardly speak.
‘That’s not my husband!’ I blurt.
Hansen frowns, and for a moment I’m filled with the childish thought that everything is going to be all right now—that Hansen will take care of things, that he’ll say he too had his doubts, and he’ll sort out this mistake.
Hansen shakes his head slightly. ‘Sorry?’ he shouts, to make himself heard above the screaming photographers. He puts his hand to his ear to signal that he hasn’t understood.
I take a deep breath and am just about to shout at him that the man isn’t my husband—that it’s all a terrible misunderstanding—when the crowd around us suddenly slows and stops. We’ve reached the entrance to the airport, but it’s blocked by photographers. Hansen raises an index finger, as if to signal that he’d better go and sort things out but will be right back.
‘Wait!’ I yell as he turns away, instinctively clutching at his arm, but he looks at me in such horror that I let it go again. ‘That’s not Philip!’ I say.
‘I’ll be right back,’ Hansen replies, as if I’d said something utterly banal that could be taken care of later. Then he disappears from view. Panicking, I look around again and see that Leo is still talking to the nice blond woman. My gaze wanders—and meets the stranger’s. His look goes right through me.
I turn quickly away. I see that Hansen is talking to the photographers at the entrance to the airport—that he has been successful—that the way is clear. We set off again. Once more I fight through the crowd to Hansen. I come level with him and enter the terminal at his side.
‘Mrs Petersen,’ he says, ‘everything all right?’
‘No,’ I say. ‘That’s not my husband!’
Hansen peers at me through his expensive glasses, and I have the feeling he’s suppressing a sigh.
‘I appreciate that this isn’t easy for you,’ he says. ‘But your husband has been through a lot. I’m sorry I wasn’t able to prepare you better for the reunion.’
I’m speechless. Is it that he doesn’t understand or that he doesn’t want to?
I take a deep breath. ‘No, please listen!’ I say. ‘That’s not—’
‘You’ll have to excuse me,’ Hansen says, interrupting me. ‘My colleague over there is calling me.’
Is he running away from me?
‘Mr Hansen!’ I call after him. ‘Mr Hansen, please listen to me!’
But he’s already halfway across the terminal. I look about me and see that we’ve crossed the arrivals hall and are coming to the exit.
A snatch of conversation reaches my ear: ‘How does it feel to set foot on German soil again?’
I spin around to see where the voice is coming from. The white-haired woman from the plane is still talking to the stranger who claims to be Philip.
No, I think. No, this is all wrong.
Someone takes my elbow. I see the friendly face of the blond woman who was so nice to Leo.
‘Mrs Petersen, what’s wrong?’ she asks.
‘The man—’
She frowns. ‘What man?’
‘The man,’ I say. ‘That man there. I don’t know him.’
The woman gives me a sympathetic look. ‘It must be a lot to take in,’ she says, as the crowd sweeps us to the exit and spits us out of the terminal. ‘It’s almost as though your husband has come back from the dead—it must seem completely unreal.’ Then she turns and begins to rummage in her handbag. ‘Here’s my card,’ she says, holding it out to me, and I take it mechanically. ‘If there’s anything you need, just give me a ring, all right? But first you must have a rest.’
‘Don’t you understand?’ I say—no, shout. I know I need to keep calm if I want to be taken seriously, but I am angry and my anger wins out. ‘Don’t you understand? That’s not my husband. That’s not Philip.’
My voice is drowned out by the pandemonium around us. The photographers have realised that we’re going to be gone any second and are determined not to pass up the chance of a last photo. If the woman did understand what I said, she clearly didn’t consider it necessary to take action.
I’m seized with panic again, and instinctively turn to search for my son, but I can’t see him. I turn round and look back at the airport, all the time being propelled forward by the people around me, onto the pavement, on and on. Where is Leo? Where is my son?
I suddenly can’t see the stranger anymore, either, and for a few hideous seconds I think that my worst nightmare has come true—that a monster has come and carried off Leo.
‘Where’s my son?’ I ask, addressing the question to no one in particular and receiving no reply, but then, between the broad backs of the two men in front of me, I catch a glimpse of him. I push my way through to him and take his hand. There are so many people around us, elbowing and jostling—but where is the stranger? I don’t want him popping up at my side all of a sudden with his frightening eyes, don’t want him touching my son again. The crush is getting worse until suddenly I feel a hand in my hair, gently but firmly pushing my head down. At first I don’t understand what’s going on, and I try to shake the hand off, but then the man in front of me steps to one side and I see that I’m standing at the kerb, that there’s a car parked there, that people are trying to bundle us into it, and I let them, because all I want is to get away from here, far away—the din around us is deafening and the press of bodies is suffocating. I feel Leo squeezing my hand, tighter and tighter—it’s all getting a bit much for him, and no wonder, we’re being crushed!
‘Mummy,’ says Leo.
I don’t hear the word—I lip-read it.
‘It’s all right, sweetie,’ I say, managing to manoeuvre him onto the back seat. I’m about to get into the car myself, desperate to get away, when I feel someone gripping my arm. I turn around. The stranger. He lets go of my arm before I can jerk it away, leans in. His voice is just a whisper.
‘I know what you did, Sarah. I know all about it, and you’re not going to get away with it.’
He draws back, smiling at me, as if he had just told me how happy he was to see me. I stand there, unable to move. Frozen.
‘Mummy?’
It is Leo’s voice that brings me back to life, and somehow I get into the car. I’ve only just sat down when first the stranger and then Hansen get in the car, too. The door slams shut behind us and the screams of the photographers are suddenly muffled. Within seconds the car is moving. I can’t breathe.
Next to me is the stranger.
I burst into the bathroom, only just making it in time. I lift the toilet lid and lean over the bowl. My stomach seizes up a few times and I retch heavily, feeling the tears rise to my eyes. I vomit in spasms, cold sweat on my forehead, and as always when I have to throw up, I think I’m going to die—that it’s never going to stop—that I won’t just spew out the contents of my stomach, but all my inner organs and eventually my soul, until I’m no more than an empty husk, slumped on the tiles like a deflated rubber doll.
Then it’s over at last. I heave myself up and flush the toilet, shivering all over and bitterly cold, my clothes clinging damply to me. I can hardly stand. This is how it must feel to be poisoned.
That Leo is safe with my best friend and her family is my sole consolation now. He proclaimed in the car that he wasn’t coming home with us, throwing a tantrum when I tried to soothe him, crying and sobbing and pummelling me with his fists. I knew he could be like that, but I hadn’t been expecting it. He’d been so calm and collected this morning, bordering on indifferent. He must
have picked up on my own fear and panic, must have smelt it in the air. I was trying to seem calm, but Leo saw through it, and it freaked him out. Mummy is never scared—but right now she is terrified.
The stranger gazed out of the window as if it were none of his concern, while Wilhelm Hansen stared at us, a look on his face that I couldn’t read. Concern? Mild disgust? It was his suggestion that we drop Leo off at a friend’s house, and I immediately agreed. My mind was racing. Miriam. Maybe this was an opportunity. Should I let Miriam know what had just happened? Would she be able to help? Or would that make matters worse?
The stranger turned his head, looking at me as if he’d read my thoughts.
When the driver stopped at Miriam’s house, Leo flung open the door and jumped out of the car as if he were fleeing the scene. I wanted to get out, too, but the stranger held me back.
‘Mr Hansen, would you be so kind as to escort my son to the door, please?’ he said. ‘I’d like to talk to my wife in private for a moment.’
The Stranger Upstairs Page 5
