The Stranger Upstairs

by Melanie Raabe

  The door opens with a jerk. I give a start and find myself face to face with the man the stranger came to see. He’s wrapped in a dressing-gown and looks irate. His irritation morphs into something else, not easily definable, when he sees me. He knows me, I think. He knows who I am.

  The man swallows. His voice, when he finally speaks, is thick with sleep. ‘I thought you’d show up at some point,’ he says. ‘But I hadn’t expected you in the middle of the night.’

  And at that moment, I know who he is.

  The stranger

  I’m roaming around a city whose rhythm, language and people are foreign to me. My body is aching all over.

  I ought to be systematic about this search, but I don’t know where to begin.

  I almost had her—I was so close. Then she went and gave me the slip. Since then I’ve been acting haphazardly, not pausing to think things through.

  I force myself to stand still. Enough of this rushing into things. I stop and think. I wipe the sweat from my forehead. I turn round. I set one foot in front of the other. I return to the house.

  I look for her mobile number. I can’t find it. I look for her address book, but without any luck. I boot up her laptop. I was positive the password would be the boy’s name, or perhaps his date of birth, but I was wrong. Once again, I have misjudged her.

  I go in the kitchen. I look at the notes stuck to the fridge with magnets, rummage through the drawers, open all the cupboards—nothing. I don’t know what to do next.

  Suddenly I’m tearing drawers out of cupboards, shouting and swearing and smashing my fist into the wall.

  It shocks me to realise how thin the membrane is separating me from total lunacy.

  My knuckles are torn. There’s blood on the whitewash. I focus on the pain, the way I did when I was captive. I was captive for a long time. I’ve had plenty of practice. My hand is throbbing. I’m bleeding. I go into the living room. I sit down on the sofa. All I can do is wait. So I wait. She’ll come back.

  Criminals always return to the scene of the crime. Especially when the scene of the crime is their own home.

  Sarah

  Exhausted, I stare at the man who has opened the door to me.

  He’s wearing white boxer shorts and a baggy AC/DC T-shirt beneath the dressing-gown. His hair is grey and has thinned since I last spent any time with him. He’s put on weight, too, but his face is the same—a kind, soft-eyed, slightly doughy face that robs his hulk-like form of its menace. Right now it’s creased with sleep. In the hall behind him I can see a child’s red sit-on car.

  I realise I’m staring at him mutely.

  ‘What did you say?’ I ask.

  The man gives a groan of annoyance.

  ‘What do you want?’

  I blink.

  ‘Have you come to make accusations against me?’ he asks.

  I stare at him, not knowing what to think.

  ‘Do you know what time it is?’ he says. ‘It’s the middle of the night.’

  I don’t react.

  ‘Come back some other time.’

  He slams the door in my face.

  I’m confused. I had reckoned with everything, but not that.

  I ring again, half-heartedly. I have a feeling Bernd Schröder isn’t going to open the door to me this time. I wait all the same—no luck.

  Bernd was one of Philip’s colleagues—the last person to see Philip alive. What does it all mean? Why did the stranger go to see him this morning—no, yesterday morning?

  I remember the last time I saw Bernd Schröder. It must have been at the summer party, that stupid summer party a good year before Philip went missing. Bernd was there with his wife, who was pregnant at the time. I’ve forgotten her name—Bianca, Beate, Bettina? I only remember that it was the first time I drank alcohol since having Leo, and that I danced, first with Philip’s PA, whom I’d always liked, and then with Philip. I see his handsome face, always rather too boyish for his age, smell the warm scent of his skin. Philip didn’t like dancing, but sometimes he danced all the same. For me.

  Confused, I drop down on the doorstep and try to think. For some reason, Bernd Schröder is important. Why?

  I run through everything again.

  In 2008, Philip went to South America on a business trip.

  The trip was to last five days.

  Philip was often in Colombia on business.

  The trips were routine.

  I said goodbye to Philip at the front door.

  He promised to be in touch every day as usual.

  A bare twenty-four hours later, Philip sent me a text telling me he’d landed safely and all was well.

  That was the last time I heard from him.

  A colleague who had accompanied him to Colombia said that Philip had set off alone for a meeting with a potential investor.

  He never turned up at the luxury hotel in Bogotá where he was expected.

  Somewhere between his hotel and his business partner’s hotel he went missing.

  Bernd Schröder was the last person to see Philip before he disappeared.

  What does it all mean?

  It’s too much. I don’t know what conclusions to draw—I’m not up to it.

  I get up and set off. I look at the sky, but see no stars, no moon—only hostile black. I walk down the street, dig in my bag for a tissue, blow my nose, switch off for a second and don’t see the man coming the other way until it’s too late. He bumps into me, I mumble an apology, and he gives me a dirty look, hisses, ‘Watch where you’re going!’ I cross the road against the lights and a taxi driver hoots at me. Two young girls, both blond, both in miniskirts, whisper and giggle as they pass me. I dodge a dead pigeon lying between the kerb and a manhole cover. The faces of the people coming towards me are blank and shuttered. Someone has been sick on the asphalt.

  I walk. No one pays me any attention. The buildings I pass look down on me, indifferent, my surroundings as hostile as if I were in the death zone.

  Then my phone rings. I don’t have to look at it to know it’s the withheld number.

  I struggle inwardly. Should I take the call? I psych myself up.

  ‘Hello, Mirko,’ I say, without knowing I’m about to.

  At first the line is silent.

  Then I hear, ‘Hello, Sarah.’

  The stranger

  The hand I bashed against the wall is throbbing. I found a first-aid kit on the shelf under the towels in the bathroom and have made myself a makeshift bandage.

  She’ll come back, I’m sure of it. I saw in her face that she had understood. She’ll come back and we’ll see this through.

  I give a start when the landline begins to ring. I’m so sick of the noise that I almost unplug it, but I force myself to take the call.

  ‘Petersen.’

  ‘It’s Grimm.’

  I swallow.

  ‘Your mobile was off,’ he says. ‘That’s why—’

  ‘No problem,’ I say.

  My voice suddenly sounds hoarse. If he’s ringing me at this hour, it must be something important.

  ‘I’ve done as you asked,’ he says.

  ‘Wait,’ I interrupt him. ‘Before you say anything—are you sure?’

  ‘Quite sure. It was easier than I thought.’

  ‘All right then,’ I say. ‘Let’s have it.’

  He talks, I listen.

  ‘Okay,’ I say, when he’s finished. ‘Thank you for letting me know.’

  A pause follows.

  ‘There’s another thing,’ says Grimm.

  And he tells me something that makes my world collapse.

  Sarah

  The noise of traffic coming from the busy road in spite of the late hour suddenly seems to swell: the driver of a convertible is leaning on her horn because a double-parked VW campervan is blocking the way. Pressing my phone to my ear, I hurry away from the main road and into a side street. It’s busy even here, but at least I can hear what Mirko’s saying.

  ‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘Can y
ou repeat that? It’s rather loud here.’

  Mirko curses. ‘I said I’m not really like that. I’m not even particularly jealous. And I’m certainly not the avenging type. I’m honestly not—you can ask anyone.’

  ‘I know,’ I say. ‘I know you aren’t.’

  I lean up against the brick wall of a house with a laundrette in the basement. Beautiful young people are streaming past me towards the trendy bars and clubs I haven’t taken an interest in for at least ten years. I watch a couple pass, hand in hand, and cross the road before coming to a beggar who’s sitting dozing in front of a rancid old hat. They stop to ruffle the coat of his shaggy dog.

  ‘I already had the ring in my pocket,’ says Mirko and I feel myself go cold.

  Christ, I didn’t know that.

  ‘Everything was going so well in the last few months—perfectly, even,’ he says, and it’s only now that I realise he’s so drunk he can hardly speak without slurring his words.

  ‘I mean, sure, she has a son from her first marriage. And she’d probably always wonder what had happened to her husband.’

  I realise that when he says ‘she’, he means me.

  ‘But when I started teaching at that school and saw her for the first time—there was something between us. I felt it instantly. Instantly. The beautiful, single mother who does triathlons. So vulnerable and yet so strong.’

  I know that in other circumstances the hurt in his voice would pierce my heart.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mirko,’ I say dully.

  And it’s true. I’m sorry that I’m not capable of feeling anything right now. Least of all for Mirko. I realise at once what I’ve gone and thought and I’m horrified. What kind of a person am I? I killed someone. I used Mirko to get over Philip and then dropped him when I no longer needed him. Just like that. And Philip…

  Philip, I—

  Mirko has noticed at once that my thoughts are wandering.

  ‘You kept refusing my calls,’ he says. ‘I don’t understand. Cutting me off like that for no reason.’

  I say nothing.

  ‘Without any explanation. And then you wouldn’t even come to the phone when I rang you at home.’

  He curses again.

  ‘I only knew your husband was back because I saw it in the newspaper!’ he shouts. ‘That’s no way to treat anyone, for Christ’s sake.’

  I am silent.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Mirko says. ‘I can’t make sense of it.’ There’s a pause. ‘Are you still there?’ he asks.

  ‘Yes.’ I say nothing else. What can I say?

  ‘Fuck you,’ Mirko says, and hangs up.

  I feel nothing—I’m too tired. But my urge to see Leo is suddenly overwhelming. All at once I have a goal again: to get to Miriam’s as fast as possible. I set off at a run, and the people coming towards me give me funny looks—there goes another weirdo in this crazy city. At the next crossroads I take a left and pass a group of young men. I ignore their lewd remarks and their cans of beer, and run and run and run.

  Although it’s very late when I get to Miriam’s, she’s awake, breastfeeding Emily. I’m incredibly glad to see her. She may not be influential or powerful like Johann, but she’s on my side and that’s all that counts just now.

  I’m going to take her into my confidence at last—I should have done it ages ago.

  ‘Sweetheart,’ she says, when she opens the door to me, the baby on her arm. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  For a second I don’t know what she means, but then I understand. She thinks I’ve come because of the online comments—as if I care about that.

  Miriam thrusts Emily into my arms and puts water on to boil for tea. She chatters away, telling me about the barbecue they had yesterday—how the children were allowed to help Martin and stuffed themselves with barbecued meat and potato salad. I can’t get a word in edgewise. The baby stares wide-eyed at my face and I can’t help but smile at her. It seems to me it’s only a few months since Leo was that small. I swallow my sentimentality and sit down at the dining table with Miriam, who takes Emily from me again and puts her to the breast. The baby immediately starts to drink in greedy gulps, and I hesitate. Is this really the moment to tell my friend what’s going on? In the middle of the night, when she’s breastfeeding? On the other hand, she didn’t seem surprised to find me on the doorstep at this hour.

  ‘I have to tell you something,’ Miriam blurts out. She looks guilty. ‘I talked to Philip,’ she says.

  I feel the colour drain from my face.

  ‘We’re both very worried about you,’ Miriam adds.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You’ve been acting so strangely for weeks.’

  I feel sick.

  ‘Can I be straight with you?’ she asks.

  I can’t get a sound out, but Miriam seems to take my silence as a yes.

  ‘I remembered what you told me about your mother’s death.’ She clears her throat. ‘Her suicide,’ she adds.

  I can’t believe it.

  ‘You told me it had been such a blow that you’d had to seek help.’

  My best friend’s betrayed me.

  ‘And, well. Maybe the present situation is similar. Maybe you need help again. It’s nothing to be ashamed of. Philip says—’

  I can’t take any more. Miriam sucks in her breath in alarm as I leap to my feet. Emily sets up a wail.

  ‘You talked about me behind my back?’ I ask.

  Miriam opens and closes her mouth.

  I storm out of the room, without even waiting for her to reply.

  ‘Sarah,’ Miriam calls out after me. ‘Wait! Where are you going?’

  I run upstairs to the first floor, where the children sleep. I’m fetching Leo, I think. I’m getting out of here.

  Cautiously, I open the door to Justus’s room. The beds are empty. At first I get a fright, but then I see a big tent in the middle of the room. I almost burst into tears—how idyllic, I think. How lovely it must be to sleep in a tent. For some strange reason, I’m reminded of the bumblebees and the limes. Carefully I unzip the tent and poke my head in. I see Martin lying in the tent and Justus snuggled up to him and it pierces my heart. They look so alike, Justus a smaller, younger version of his father. I let my eyes wander over the alpine landscape of quilts and sleeping-bags, looking for Leo’s face, a foot, a hand, anything. Then it hits me—there’s no Leo. He’s not here.

  Again I hear the stranger’s voice.

  You’ll lose everything. Your son. Your whole beautiful life.

  Frantically I hare back down the hall. Miriam is waiting for me at the foot of the stairs.

  ‘Where’s Leo?’ I shout.

  She only looks at me. ‘Isn’t he up there?’ she asks mildly.

  I storm past her and am almost out of the door when I stop.

  ‘I need your car,’ I say.

  ‘What on earth’s the matter with you?’

  ‘The car keys!’ I shout at her.

  Miriam looks shocked, but she fetches her keys and gives them to me.

  ‘Where are you thinking of going?’ she calls out after me, while baby Emily screams and screams and screams in her arms.

  The baby’s wails are still ringing in my ears as I get in Miriam’s car and drive off.

  The stranger

  I am standing on the threshold, bag over my shoulder, staring into the darkness—trying to come to a decision.

  I’m not a bad person, I think. I’m not a bad person.

  I keep thinking it until I almost believe it.

  I may have completely misjudged Sarah, but I do know myself.

  I close the door.

  I set down the bag.

  I can’t run away.

  Sarah

  The moon is glowing an intense orange and looks very close, as if it weren’t in the sky but hanging just above the houses, waiting to be plucked by the first late-night reveller who comes along. To me it seems a bad omen. Ravens, dead bumblebees—and now a bloody moon.

  The roads are empty,
but still I can’t get along fast enough, have to force myself not to jump the red lights. The whole time I’m aware of the phone in the pocket of my jeans, fervently hoping that it will start to ring—that Miriam will call to say that Leo’s turned up, that he’s okay, that he was only hiding, that he had wanted to punish me, or whatever. But my phone is silent.

  I feel as if I’m in a tunnel, oblivious to what’s going on to the left and right of the road. Strips of darkness and light. I drive, stop, release the clutch, drive off, floor the accelerator, stop, drive off again, speed through the darkness. Then I turn off onto our street.

  The sense that everything is conspiring against me is now so overpowering and intense that I almost have the feeling I could bite into it like a ripe, poisonous fruit. The faint headache I’ve had for a while has given way to almost unbearable tension, as if my head were in a vice and someone were trying to make my eyes pop out of their sockets. The pain feels like a punishment.

  Together with the lack of sleep, the pain makes everything around me seem strangely surreal, as if reality had slipped ever so slightly, revealing a fairly precise but still imperfect copy of itself in which the entire world is a little bit different—blacker, deeper, duller, more alien, more menacing.

  Before me lies the road I took when I ran away from the stranger. I skirt the fences that border my neighbours’ gardens, and when I come to mine I squeeze myself through the hole again.

  The house looms up before me in the darkness, a haunted castle. A solitary light is burning in the spare room.