I take the vase from my bedside table and hurl it at the wall, then watch with a feeling of satisfaction as it smashes to pieces. I kick the wardrobe and feel a sharp pain in my foot. I throw books and pillows and pens about the room—whatever I can lay my hands on. The little lamp from my bedside table shatters against the wall. I rant and shout and rage. Then I sit down on the bed, a bundle of fury and headache and confusion. And at last the tears come.
The stranger
I’m sitting on the floor outside her bedroom door, listening to her cry.
She is producing deep, theatrical sobs and throwing things around the room.
It is by no means clear to me whether she is trying to manipulate me or is truly distraught. Both are possible, but I’m hoping, of course, for the latter.
If this is a moment of genuine weakness, I really ought to take advantage of it.
Just now it is particularly annoying that Grimm had to put me off—that he didn’t have any useful information for me.
I am suddenly hit by the fear she might harm herself. I wouldn’t want that—not for the moment, anyway. I get up and stand at the door, my arm raised to knock. I hesitate, let my arm fall again. No. Let her rage and weep a little longer. She’s not going to slit her wrists or hang herself—she simply isn’t the type.
She’ll have a good cry. Then she’ll sit up, blow her nose and wipe her eyes. She’ll be annoyed at herself for giving in like this, tell herself she’s strong and has to get a grip. That’s what she’s best at—getting up again, no matter what. So she will. She’ll get up, and then she’ll act.
And at last things will come to a head.
I back away from the door. I’m going to stretch my legs a bit—get some fresh air.
I leave the house and go out onto the street. Chestnut trees. An elderly man walking his alsatian, children out on their bikes, birds twittering.
I take a few steps. I have certainly felt fitter, but I’m all right. Just need some sleep.
Stay strong.
The man with the dog is closer now. I give a start when he speaks.
‘Is Mrs Petersen at home?’ he asks.
‘Sorry?’
I’m momentarily thrown—I hadn’t reckoned with questions from prying neighbours.
‘Mrs Petersen,’ he repeats. ‘Is she at home? You’ve just left the house, haven’t you?’
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘She’s at home.’
The old man eyes me with mistrust.
‘Lauterbach’s the name. I live a few houses further up.’ He sounds hostile. ‘And who are you?’
‘I’m Philip Petersen,’ I reply. ‘Sarah’s husband.’
The old man laughs. ‘But I’d recognise Philip,’ he says. ‘I’ve known him since he was a little boy.’ He leaves me standing there and goes off after his dog, who’s already making a beeline for the next tree. ‘Some people have a funny sense of humour,’ he mutters to himself.
Instinctively I glance up at the house, at her bedroom window. There’s no sign of her.
I go back into the house and take up my post at her door again.
Sarah
Though night has fallen, it’s hot in here. I can feel fine beads of sweat on my forehead. A drop runs down between my breasts and seeps into the waistband of my trousers. A little fresh air would do me good. I open the window, expecting to feel a breeze on my face, but all that is waiting for me out there in the night is silence, velvety darkness and a few never-tiring bats. Not a breath of air—no respite for my overheated brain. A storm was forecast, but hasn’t come. I step back from the window and sit down again.
I have so much to think about, I don’t know where to begin—but the stranger has to go. Everything else is subordinate.
I try Johann again. It rings once, twice—and he answers. I’m so surprised I can’t at first react.
‘Hello?’ he repeats. ‘Sarah?’
‘Johann,’ I say, ‘I’ve been trying to get hold of you for so long!’
‘I know,’ he says. ‘I’ve been abroad.’
His voice sounds as cool as ever. Doesn’t he know?
‘Have you heard—?’ I venture.
‘I can’t believe it,’ he says, interrupting me. ‘They’ve found him. They’ve actually found him!’
Oh God. How do I tell him?
‘I’ve been trying to get hold of you all this time,’ I whisper.
Johann doesn’t hear me. ‘I couldn’t believe it at first,’ he says. ‘After all this time.’
‘It’s not Philip,’ I say.
I can almost hear Johann frown and blink in confusion, as if I’ve played a prank on him and he’s waiting for me to say ‘April fool!’
‘I don’t understand,’ he says.
‘The man they’ve found isn’t Philip,’ I say.
Silence.
I swallow, forcing myself to keep calm.
‘What do you mean, it isn’t Philip?’ Johann asks.
I grope about for words.
‘I saw you on television,’ Johann says into the silence. ‘I have a newspaper here in front of me with a photo of the three of you.’
‘Johann, look closely at that photo,’ I say. ‘Look at the man. Remind yourself exactly what Philip looks like—his build, the way he holds himself, the way he moves. The shape of his eyebrows. The dimples on his cheeks. His hairline. His eyes. Especially his eyes. And then look at the man in the photo. You can’t seriously believe it’s Philip.’
Johann is silent again for a moment. ‘You can only see his profile,’ he says, ‘but—’ He breaks off, mid-sentence.
‘I understand your confusion,’ I say. ‘I’ve tried to get hold of you so many times in the past few days because I wanted to spare you just this.’
Johann is silent.
‘Of course you think it’s Philip,’ I add, placatory.
Johann still says nothing.
‘Context. It’s all context.’ I smooth an imaginary strand of hair out of my face. ‘You’d heard Philip was back. Maybe you cried. Maybe you laughed uncontrollably. Your fingers shook. You thanked God, although you don’t really believe in him. I know you did. I know, because I felt the same.’
Still Johann says nothing.
‘And then you open the paper and see a man the age Philip would be now, a man of about Philip’s height and build who also happens to look very much like him. Of course you think it’s Philip.’
Silence.
‘It’s all context,’ I say again.
‘Sarah, what is this nonsense? If it isn’t Philip, who else could it possibly be?’
‘A stranger. A fraud.’
‘Are you serious? Why on earth would you think such a thing?’
I don’t know what to say. I open and close my mouth, but I can’t speak. A strange, strangled sound escapes my throat.
‘My god, you’re serious,’ Johann says. ‘Where is Philip—I mean, this man—now?’
A wave of relief crashes over me. Johann believes me. He’ll help me. ‘I don’t know exactly, somewhere downstairs,’ I say.
‘He’s in the house with you?’
I nod, pointlessly, but nothing comes out of my mouth.
‘If it isn’t Philip,’ Johann says, with studied restraint, ‘then who on earth is it?’
‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘Believe me, that’s something I’d—’
‘If it isn’t Philip,’ Johann says again, interrupting me, ‘what is he doing in your house in the middle of the night?’
‘I’ve tried to—’
‘If it isn’t Philip,’ Johann says, almost shouting now, ‘why haven’t you rung the police?’
‘I was going to! But he said—’
‘If this man isn’t Philip, what the hell is he doing holding Leo in this photo?’
I’m speechless. This isn’t going the way I’d imagined.
‘Listen, I spoke to Constanze,’ I say. ‘She agrees. This man—’
‘Dear Lord! Constanze? Constanze is ill, she—’
‘For God�
��s sake, let me finish,’ I cry. ‘If you’d only listen to me for a moment, you’d understand! He’s clever! He—’
‘Now you listen to me, my girl,’ says Johann. ‘I don’t know what’s wrong with you, but you need to pull yourself together.’
He no longer sounds confused—he sounds cool and menacing. I knew he could be like this, but I’ve never witnessed it.
‘I don’t know what’s wrong with you and I don’t want to know. I don’t want to know whether you’re screwing some other man, whether you’ve got used to the idea of being a filthy-rich widow, or whether it’s just too much like hard work having your husband back in the house when you’re used to having your own way. I’m not interested. But you’re damn well going to pull yourself together now, have you got that? Think of your child, for God’s sake!’
He hangs up.
I am cold. Icy cold.
Think of your child, for God’s sake, Johann had said. Did I hear right?
Was that an unspoken threat to take my son away from me?
What the hell is going on?
I have no time to draw breath, let alone digest the phone call. Just moments after I’ve hung up, my mobile starts to ring again. And again, it’s the withheld number. The phone rings and rings—goes quiet—rings again.
Suddenly it’s all too much for me: the stranger’s cruelty, Leo’s confusion, Constanze’s poisonous remarks, the threats, the fear, the lies, my nightmares, the blood on my hands, this grim night, the whole bloody mess. I curl up on the bed and give in to my tears.
My phone rings and rings and rings.
Then, all of a sudden, it stops, and at last I can think again. Finally, I see it. I understand.
Johann.
The fact that I couldn’t get hold of him.
His company’s financial difficulties.
His repeated attempts to access Philip’s money through me—to have Philip declared dead, although it was far too early.
Johann.
It was Johann all along.
With the help of the stranger, he is trying to lay his hands on Philip’s millions.
When Barbara Petry asked us to come up with someone who knew Philip, it was the stranger who suggested Johann. Why would he have done that, if Johann were not on his side?
I have an answer, now, to the disturbing question of how the stranger got hold of so much information about Philip and me—about our past, our life together.
Or am I being unfair to Johann? Is he simply determined to believe that Philip is back? After all, he hasn’t yet met the stranger in person…
My thoughts are interrupted by a soft creak outside the door.
I clear my throat and swallow. And as soon as I feel sure that my voice won’t sound afraid or tearful, I say loudly, ‘I know you’re there.’
There’s no response. I’m beginning to think I’ve made a mistake when I see the doorhandle move. A moment later, the stranger is in my bedroom.
‘What do you want?’ I ask.
‘Just making sure you’re okay.’
I am so sick of his little games.
‘No one can hear us,’ I say. ‘You can stop this nonsense.’
The stranger opens his mouth, then shuts it again.
‘You must have known my husband very well,’ I say, ‘if he’s told you so much about us.’
The stranger doesn’t reply.
‘Or did you get your information from someone else?’
The stranger doesn’t reply.
‘Where’s my husband?’
I hear the stranger breathe. I hear the tick of the clock on the wall.
‘I’m going to give you one last chance to tell me what I want to know,’ I say. ‘Then I’m going downstairs and ringing the police to press charges.’
The stranger doesn’t move a muscle. Maybe he thinks I’m bluffing.
I swallow drily. ‘What do you want?’ I ask.
The stranger is silent.
Slowly, I count to ten in my head, then I jump to my feet and make for the door. But the stranger grabs my arm. I start. He pulls me back to the bed, grasps me tightly by the shoulders and puts his face very close to mine. For a crazy moment I think he’s going to try to kiss me. His face is so close I can feel the warmth of his breath on my skin.
‘Not a word,’ he says. He almost whispers it. ‘If you say so much as a single word about this to anyone, you’re done.’ He gives me a brief, penetrating look, then lets go of my shoulders. ‘Do you understand?’
His threats no longer frighten me.
‘You’re not my husband,’ I hiss.
‘No, I’m not.’ He spits the words at me. ‘Thank God for that. The poor bastard. But believe me, I still know more than enough about you—more than you can imagine. Don’t test me.’
I can feel my mouth hanging open.
At last, his mask has dropped.
The stranger
The words just tumbled out. A slip.
All I’d wanted—because she hadn’t stopped crying—was to make sure she wasn’t going to harm herself.
I turn away. The dull pain in my head is back, swelling and ebbing. That’s good, I think. Pain is good. Pain keeps you awake, tells you that you’re still alive. What was it one of the boys at the camp always said? Pain is just weakness leaving your body.
My gaze is drawn outside to the garden and the neighbouring houses. A summer’s night in Hamburg. A soft jumble of voices comes in at the tilted window. Somewhere out there, people are having barbecues, sitting outside enjoying the balmy evening. It all seems utterly surreal to me—in my life there are no garden parties, no after-work beers with friends. Where I’ve come from, none of that existed. I know no normality. Not that I can remember, anyway.
What if I were to follow the sound of the voices and go out, I wonder. What if I went off and left her? Does it really matter whether or not she rings the police? Does anything matter anymore?
I run my hand over my face. No. I’m familiar with these thoughts—they have often stalked me. It isn’t bad to think them. Thoughts are only impulses sent from synapse to synapse. Thoughts aren’t a problem. It’s only when you give in to them that they become a problem.
I pull myself together. I can’t allow myself to be tired, can’t allow myself to think of my pains. I made a mistake. I let myself get carried away. But this is not over yet. All is not lost.
I turn back to her. This is like a game of chess, but I never have more than a few seconds to work out my next move. And she is a completely unpredictable player. Hard to say whether my threats are still making an impression on her.
I have to stop her, whatever it takes—but I don’t like resorting to violence unless it’s necessary.
Sarah
Terror, fear, relief—my emotions come thick and fast. At last he’s confessed—that’s something, at least. I was on the verge of losing my mind. The tension that falls away from me is so great I almost burst into tears again.
The stranger has gone out and left me in my bedroom. The crash of the door as he slammed it shut behind him is still reverberating in my ears.
I’m dizzy, my mouth dry. I desperately need to drink something. I glance out of the window. It’s dark outside now, late evening. I open the door and look down the passage. I’m about to go downstairs and fetch myself a glass of water from the kitchen when I hear the stranger’s voice, low and muffled. Is someone with him? I creep down without a sound. The voice is coming from the living room. I step nearer, careful not to make a noise. The living-room door is ever so slightly ajar. A floorboard creaks as I approach. I give a start and stand still. Did he notice? I hear his voice again, and then silence. He’s on the phone! I listen. At first I hear nothing. I’m beginning to be afraid that he knows I’m listening and has hung up, but then I hear his voice again.
‘I don’t think so, no.’
Pause.
‘I don’t think she’ll go to the police.’
Pause.
I swallow.
/> ‘I don’t know!’
My throat seizes up.
‘I find it very hard to say.’
Pause.
‘If she does go to the police, she’s doing herself more harm than anyone else…’
The hairs on my neck stand on end. Goosebumps spread over my body.
‘I don’t think that will prove—’
Pause.
‘I’m not going to—’
Silence.
‘Who do you think you’re talking to? I wouldn’t do a thing like that!’
Pause.
‘Forget it. I wouldn’t dream of it!’
Pause.
‘No violence, that was the deal!’
Pause.
‘I’ll see if I can reason with her.’
Pause.
‘It’s worth a try, isn’t it?’
Pause.
‘You promise me that Sarah and her son will come out of this unscathed, if I manage to pull it off?’
Pause.
‘Promise?’
Pause.
‘Okay. Okay, thanks. Yes. Goodbye, then.’
I hear him replace the phone in the charging dock.
It’s not so much his words that drive cold sweat out of every pore in my body—it’s his tone. It was different from the tone he’s been using with me. He still sounded angry and exhausted, yes, but there was something else in his voice, something that puzzles me.
Fear.
I move away from the living room as quickly and quietly as I can and creep upstairs and into my bedroom, closing the door behind me. I sit down on the bed. I have to think, to make sense of this latest development, but before I can even get started, I hear footsteps again.
The stranger knocks and then lets himself in without waiting. He stands there silent, as if searching for words, shoulders drooping, avoiding my gaze. Then he turns and looks me in the face.
‘Okay, listen,’ he says. ‘If you think I’m your enemy, you’re wrong.’
It’s so absurd, I almost have to laugh. ‘If you’re not my enemy, what are you?’
He doesn’t reply.
‘You’re an impostor!’ I cry. ‘You’ve wormed your way into my house, you’ve threatened me. What else are you?’
‘I didn’t choose to play this part.’
The Stranger Upstairs Page 17
