He’s here.
He’s awake.
Is he waiting for me?
I cross the garden, giving a slight start when a sudden crack breaks the silence. I turn my head and see something dart off, maybe a cat—or the fox. I feel myself shiver, but I keep going, towards the house. The terrace door is slightly ajar; I open it noiselessly and slip inside. The house and its rooms are so familiar that I don’t need any light, moving with the sureness of a sleepwalker. I listen out—no sound to be heard.
I assume the stranger is in the spare room. The gun, which must still be somewhere in the house, flashes into my mind—then the big block of knives in the kitchen. But the time for games is over. I inhale deeply, cross the ground floor and mount the stairs without a sound, instinctively skipping the creaking step. On the landing I stop and listen. I look down the passage leading to the spare room, but there is nothing—only darkness. Suddenly I think I hear a rumbling. The hairs on my neck stand on end; my heart beats faster. But no, it was only my nerves. Silence. I go down the passage towards the spare room. Outside the door I stop and steel myself. Then I press down the handle and push open the door. The room lies in darkness. I turn on the light—blink—swallow. I see in a split second that the room is empty. Where is he?
Without stopping to think, I head back to the kitchen. I’ll wait for him there—he’ll turn up sooner or later. I think of putting the light on, but something stops me. I give a start. I freeze. The stranger is sitting in the dark at the kitchen table, motionless. He looks at me. I flick the switch.
‘There you are,’ he says.
He gets up and comes towards me. Now he’s right in front of me, his dark eyes gleaming.
I take a step back. Get me away from this man.
‘Where’s Leo?’ I ask. ‘Where’s my son?’
‘Sarah,’ he says. ‘Calm down. Leo’s safe at Miriam’s.’
‘I’ve just come from Miriam’s,’ I say. ‘He wasn’t there.’
For a moment that throws him—he doesn’t seem to know what to say next—but he’s quick.
‘Miriam rang just now,’ he says. ‘She said to tell you that Leo’s turned up, and he’s fine.’
I give a bitter laugh.
‘Sarah, listen,’ he says. ‘I’ve made a terrible mess of things. Please let’s talk this over sensibly.’
He astounds me, really he does. Behind every mask is a new mask.
‘What exactly do you want to talk about?’ I ask. ‘My husband’s murder or my son’s kidnapping?’
He splutters at that, feigning shock.
‘Where is my son?’ I shout. ‘Does Johann have him?’
He frowns. ‘Johann?’
What do I do now?
‘Sarah,’ he says. ‘Sarah, please listen to me. I don’t have Leo. He’s at Miriam’s. Why would I kidnap Leo?’
‘To frighten me,’ I say. ‘To make me do as you say.’
‘That makes no sense, Sarah,’ he says. ‘Think about it. If I wanted to use Leo to make you do as I say, wouldn’t I admit that I had him?’
He’s right. Is he right?
‘Why should I listen to anything you say?’ I ask.
‘Because it’s the truth. I’d never do anything to harm the boy. What I said is true—Miriam really did call just before you got back. She’s found Leo. He’s fine.’
‘You killed my husband,’ I say.
‘No,’ he says, ‘I didn’t.’
‘You said it yourself.’
‘I was testing you!’
I laugh again. ‘Great excuse!’
‘It’s true!’
‘Why would you need to test me?’
He’s about to reply, then stops. ‘You can see for yourself that Leo isn’t here,’ he says. ‘He’s at Miriam’s.’
‘But she’d have rung me!’ I say.
‘She did,’ says the stranger. ‘But the call went straight to your voicemail. The battery’s probably flat.’
I can feel my eyes narrowing to slits. I grope in the back pocket of my jeans for my phone, careful not to take my eyes off the stranger. I take out the phone with my left hand and glance at the display—
‘Sarah, I’m sorry,’ says the stranger. ‘I’m so sorry—about everything.’
He takes a step towards me. I back away instinctively, but he comes after me and takes me in his arms. I gasp and push him away. The kitchen counter is only a step away. I stop thinking and act—pull a knife from the block, hold it out in front of me.
In a flash he has grabbed my wrist and is trying to wrest the knife from me. My phone clatters to the floor. I resist him with all my strength and manage to struggle free.
The stranger gasps and jumps back.
I don’t hesitate for a second, but swing my arm wildly and slash him across the chest. He cries out in alarm and backs away, his shirt hanging open, blood welling up, soaking the cloth red. I blink. I too take a step backwards. The stranger presses his hands to the wound, but it’s too late.
I’ve already seen it.
I drop the knife.
There’s only one thing I can do—have to do. I muster what little strength and courage remain to me and go up to the man.
He doesn’t back away, doesn’t resist.
I yank off what’s left of his shirt—and I see it now. All of it. The scarring. He is covered in scars. But they can’t hide it. There it is, directly beneath the cut I have inflicted on him. There it is.
Philip’s birthmark.
I’ve been dreaming of this for years.
It is night. We are standing facing one another. The world is deserted—there is no one but us. Adam and Eve. All the rivers, all the mountains and lakes, all the meadows and woods and streets and fields and orchards and circus tents and oceans—all ours. I daren’t move, I daren’t say anything, because I’m afraid of breaking the spell, of bursting the cocoon around us that’s keeping the world at bay. I almost flinch when Philip raises his hand and gently, very gently touches my cheek. It is as if he wants to make sure that I’m real. I close my eyes and try to get it into my head that I am standing here and that Philip is stroking my cheek, the way he’s stroked it hundreds of times before. I open my eyes again. The spell breaks.
He pulls back his hand like a child who’s suddenly remembered that it’s dangerous to push your hand between the bars of a cage.
I stare at Philip; Philip stares at me. I back away—I can feel myself shaking my head, hear myself saying something, but I don’t know what. I clutch the arm of the sofa to stop myself from falling into an abyss. The boundary between dream and reality has blurred, all certainty flown out of the window. I understand nothing, and at the same time I know everything.
I keep backing away. One step, another step. A choked cry leaves my throat. I want to turn round, I want to run away, but I’m in such shock, I can hardly move.
‘Sarah, please stay!’ says the stranger—Vincent—my husband—Philip, reaching for my hand. I pull it away.
My eyes fall on the phone lying on the floor. I stoop down and pick it up—something to do, a way of holding off thought. I tap away at the screen, trying to unlock it, but the display won’t light up. Is the battery really flat or was the phone damaged when it fell on the parquet?
‘Sarah,’ says Philip.
The sight of him pains me. I can’t bear to look at him and see a stranger.
Spurred by a sudden thought, I go off and leave him, walking like a clockwork toy—as if there’s a key sticking in my back, as if someone’s wound me up.
Leo. I need to know that Leo is safe.
I walk stiff-legged into the living room, take the telephone and dial Miriam’s number. I blink in confusion when the engaged tone sounds, hang up and stare at the phone in my hand, fighting the urge to try again, wanting to keep the line free so Miriam can call me. I count to ten, but it doesn’t ring. I curse and redial and breathe a sigh of relief when I hear the ringing tone.
It rings once, twice, three times without anyone
answering. Then someone picks up and I hear Miriam’s worried voice. ‘Sarah, thank God!’ she says. ‘I’ve been desperate. Is everything okay?’
I say nothing—I feel numb.
Leo.
‘Is he at yours?’ I croak.
‘Yes. I found him—didn’t Philip tell you? He’s absolutely fine. It’s you I’m worried about!’
‘Say it again,’ I demand.
‘Leo’s absolutely fine,’ Miriam repeats. ‘You took off so suddenly that I couldn’t even tell you he was probably—’
‘Miriam?’ I say, interrupting her. ‘Where was he?’
‘He was only in the bathroom!’
He was only in the bathroom, I think, dully.
‘Didn’t Philip tell you? I spoke to him earlier. Sarah, are you okay?’ Miriam asks. ‘You know I’m here if you need me.’
‘Thanks, Miriam,’ I say and hang up.
I turn round, still in a complete daze—and there he is, standing in the door. Philip. Not the husband of my memories, but my husband. Seven years older, seven years different. I know it must be him—his birthmark is unmistakable—but I still don’t recognise him.
Philip. I see us, hardly more than children. It’s summer and we’re standing in a sea of people and Radiohead are playing us a song; we’re sitting by the Elbe at night and Philip has his hand in my wet hair and our lips meet; we’re standing on the Elbe Beach and Philip goes down on his knees and I pretend to be surprised; we’re in Las Vegas and the fat Elvis impersonator is singing us ‘Love Me Tender’. I see Philip’s face when I tell him I’m pregnant again and that it’s going to work out this time; I see him checking his bag for the hospital—cameras and batteries enough for an entire camera crew; I see him with Leo in his arms; I see us arguing and making it up and—
In front of me is a stranger.
In front of me is my husband.
It is night.
There is no longer past and future.
Just us.
Us, now, this moment.
I ought to say something, I know, but I have no words. Everything is blood and pain and guilt—a carpet of starved bumblebees.
‘I didn’t recognise you,’ I say, when I can talk again, and my voice sounds old and rough.
I don’t know what else to say.
I struggle for words.
‘I’d forgotten,’ I say.
‘I know,’ he says.
We look at each other, but without recognition.
The devil, I think, once fashioned a mirror that made all the beautiful things reflected in it dwindle to almost nothing, while all the bad things reflected in it got worse and worse. But one day the mirror shattered, and the little splinters went flying and anyone who got one in his eye saw everything twisted, or only had eyes for twisted things. Some people even got a splinter from the enchanted mirror in their hearts, and those people’s hearts turned to lumps of ice.
I think of the characters in Leo’s beloved ‘Snow Queen’—of Kay who gets a splinter from the mirror in his heart, so that it turns to ice, and another in his eye, so that he no longer recognises his dearest friend, Gerda. And of Gerda herself, who goes out in search of Kay and travels halfway across the world to look for him—but when she finds him at last, he is cold as ice and doesn’t recognise her.
How often have I read Leo that story? Fifty times? A hundred times? I used to wish for a life like a fairytale. I’d forgotten how brutal so many fairytales are.
Summer 2015
The plane was on its final approach to Hamburg. He watched the earth speeding towards him and for a moment it felt as if the plane was going to crash. The thought didn’t frighten him. He sat there, motionless, watching as the houses and trees and everything else which went to make up the world grew bigger and bigger.
The last few days seemed unreal to him. Everything had gone so fast—being released, saying goodbye to the others, getting out. Out of the damp, filthy camp that had become his home and into hospital, then out of hospital into a limousine, and out of a limousine into a hotel lobby—all in less than twelve hours. He’d tried to get his head round it, tried to feel happy. But there hadn’t been time. There had always been something needing to be discussed, somebody wanting something of him. It was only now on the plane that he had a moment’s peace. The people accompanying him on the flight had gone quiet. They were looking out of the windows, watching the earth come closer, or reading the paper. He saw his home town hurtling towards him, his old life, his old loves. It was going too fast—he was still at the camp, with his companions, still in the filth and the damp. He didn’t know what was waiting for him. Did he still have a home?
When he thought of home, he always thought of one particular day—he didn’t know why.
A Saturday at the height of summer, the garden full of flowers, the swifts giving a farewell performance. Sarah had suggested a picnic in the garden, and so there they were in the shade of the old cherry tree, with strawberries and rapidly melting vanilla ice-cream, the occasional unhurried bumblebee buzzing past. Leo lay between them on the rug, babbling contentedly and staring at the light that shone through the branches of the trees and made the cherries Sarah would pick for the children next door sparkle like tiny toffee apples. Now and then Leo would crawl off into the grass in search of adventure, snatching at butterflies, chuckling at the blades of grass that tickled his bare arms and legs. Now and then they would get up and bring him back to the rug.
Sarah had twisted her hair into a simple knot at the nape of her neck. She was barefoot in her pale yellow summer dress, her left foot swollen—she’d trodden on a bee earlier in the day. Philip had pulled the sting out of the sole of her foot and fetched ice to cool it. She was sitting cross-legged, a book in her lap. He’d have liked to know what she was reading, but didn’t like to interrupt her, afraid that the moment would take flight like a startled bird if he made any sudden move. Leo dragged himself off in pursuit of a particularly plump bumblebee that dropped down behind the gooseberry bushes like a helicopter gunship, then came up again, buzzing loudly, and vanished into the blue of the sky. Philip was amazed at how quick little Leo was now. If you held his hands he could even take a few wobbly steps. Sarah looked up and put her book down—he saw she was reading Hemingway, probably for the English class she’d soon be teaching again. She was with the baby in a step or two and swung him high above her head, making him laugh. Philip picked Sarah a daisy. She accepted it graciously, then ate it, and he laughed.
Later, Sarah went in to get the supper and Philip stayed in the garden a while longer. He was eating gooseberries from the bush when he heard something rustle in the grass in front of him. Soon afterwards a small ginger and white cat emerged, swiftly followed by a second, with brown patches. They stopped a little way off, waiting and watching. Philip smiled.
‘Hello,’ he said, watching them trip towards him, then back off and come to a standstill again. They meowed softly and at last overcame their hesitation, tumbling towards him.
The cats seemed to be brother and sister. They had no collars and one of them had a cloudy eye. Philip wondered whether they were strays.
A high-pitched voice came from the garden next door. ‘They’re so adorable!’ A little red-haired girl with a ponytail was looking at him through the fence. He glimpsed shorts and a football shirt.
‘Are they yours?’ he asked.
The girl shook her head. ‘They’re quite timid,’ she said. ‘One of them has a bad eye. Maybe someone was nasty to him.’
Philip nodded gravely. ‘Shall we give them names?’ he asked.
‘They must already have names.’
‘But we don’t know what they are.’
After they had named the kittens and the girl had gone away, Philip followed his wife into the house. When he entered the kitchen, she jumped out at him and covered his sunburnt forehead with painful kisses. They fell to the floor together, laughing.
That was home.
Did it still exist?
Today is my fourteen thousand four hundred and fortieth day on earth, he thought. Fourteen thousand four hundred and thirty-nine times he had woken up and opened his eyes, lived through the day and gone to sleep again. Fourteen thousand four hundred and thirty-nine times he had lain and dreamed.
He hadn’t stopped counting—had so often wondered whether he would ever be free again. And if so, on which day of his life? The thirteen thousandth? The twenty thousandth?
He looked out of the window and wondered where he stood. He didn’t know. Everything he’d once thought of as his life, everything that had made up his identity was so far away—childhood, youth, love, university, marriage, fatherhood, work. He’d spent the last seven years in a limbo of waiting and survival.
When, in the hotel in Colombia, he had seen himself in a mirror again after so long, he’d been afraid of himself. He’d stared at his face and found not the slightest resemblance to his old self. No, he had thought eventually, I’m not that man anymore. Not at all. Not even his own mother would recognise him. The carefree idiot he’d once been had vanished. His appearance reflected his inner self.
He remembered his first shower after he’d been freed, remembered how he’d stood in the bathroom with a razor and all the necessary equipment set out in front of him, and how he’d peered into his bearded face and hadn’t been able to bring himself to shave. He’d hidden behind that beard for so long—almost seven years. He couldn’t part with it. It was doubtless best to be a little on his guard still.
Part of him just wanted to be left in peace. He’d sent away the psychologist who had offered to talk to him. Was it so hard to understand that he wanted to be left in peace? Yes, apparently it was. Apparently his behaviour was not normal. So he decided to stay strong. He could do that by now. Stay strong and keep going. Not get into any unnecessary discussions. Not until he was home—it wasn’t long.
The beard remained. And the desire to retreat into the solitude of his house until he had worked out who he was and what he wanted to do with the rest of his life—that remained too.
The Stranger Upstairs Page 22
