A Shadow of Myself

by Mike Phillips

  ‘I saw that fat bastard as well,’ Radka said. ‘The one who worked for the Stasi. Coming out of the supermarket, he was waiting for us. He looked and smiled as if he knew something about me.’ She paused and when he didn’t reply, she stared at him, her eyes wild with an angry resentment he thought had been buried long ago. ‘I thought all that was over. You promised me.’

  ‘It is over,’ George told her. ‘This time it’s different. I’m going to put a stop to it tonight.’

  Before Radka could reply the mobile warbled in his hand. Gripped by some premonition, he put it to his ear, knowing who the caller was even before he heard the wheezing intake of breath.

  ‘This is Liebl,’ the familiar voice said.

  TWENTY-THREE

  During the ride to Kreuzberg Joseph tried asking a couple of questions in English but the driver simply shrugged, so he gave up and contented himself with peering through the windows, noting the landmarks he recognised. The car stopped in a narrow street and the driver got out, opened the door and when he got out, led the way across the pavement to the doorway of what looked like a shop. He pushed open the door and gestured.

  ‘This isn’t a bar,’ Joseph said.

  The driver gestured again. There was a light behind the blacked-out glass front, and he peered in through the door trying to make out what was inside, but he could see nothing beyond the shape of a giant stuffed animal which stood near the entrance. Joseph had a vision of a smoky back room in which George would be sitting surrounded by his cronies, and feeling a sudden flush of anger he walked past the driver and went in. A bell chimed as he crossed the threshold. There was a narrow corridor running between the exhibits which crowded the space, and he walked along it, brushing past some uniforms hanging from the ceiling towards the man standing behind the glass case at the back of the shop.

  He was short, balding, with a little beard on his chin. He wore a neat black suit over a black vest, and he watched Joseph approach without making a sign of greeting or recognition. There seemed to be no one else in the shop.

  ‘I’m here to meet George,’ Joseph told him curtly.

  He was ready now to hear that there had been some mistake, and he was wondering whether the man would call him a taxi so he could get back to the hotel or to Katya’s apartment.

  ‘George Coker is your brother?’

  The man’s tone had an authoritative rasp, like an official asking about his passport, and Joseph felt like telling him to mind his own business.

  ‘Yes. That’s right,’ he said. ‘Where is he?’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ the man replied. ‘He’s not here.’

  Joseph made up his mind. He had no intention of waiting around in this crowded little hole.

  ‘When he gets here,’ he said, ‘tell him I came.’

  He turned to begin retracing his steps, but within a few paces of the doorway he stopped abruptly. There was a dog standing on the carpet in front of him. At first glance it looked innocuous. It didn’t growl or snarl. It simply stood there, its little red eyes above the funny squashed up muzzle staring intently.

  ‘Please don’t move,’ the man said behind him. ‘These dogs go for the crotch and it’s very hard to persuade them to let go.’

  ‘What’s this all about?’ Joseph asked. ‘My brother sent a car for me. That’s why I came. I’m going now. Just get your dog out of the way.’

  He had been bewildered and angry; now he was beginning to realise that he had been stupid to come here. He could hear the sound of voices and traffic from outside, but inside the shop the atmosphere was suddenly dark and oppressive.

  ‘I sent the car.’ The man’s voice had a dispassionate, lecturing tone. He spoke excellent English, with a touch of what sounded like an American accent. ‘There is someone who wishes to speak with you. It won’t take long.’

  ‘I don’t know anything about my brother’s business,’ Joseph said, turning to look at him. ‘I only arrived in Berlin yesterday. You’ve got the wrong man.’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ the man said.

  ‘I don’t give a shit,’ Joseph told him. ‘I’m going.’

  He was angry enough to ignore the dog, and he turned away, intending to skirt a path through the piles of junk, but the man must have made a signal then, because suddenly, without warning, Joseph felt an excruciating agony, a jolt which shocked him in the muscles of his right calf and spread through his body. He screamed, trying to pull away from the dog which was attached to his leg, and he felt the creature’s claws scrabbling on the floor as it fought for its balance.

  ‘Get it off me!’ he shouted. ‘Fucking get it off!’

  Through the fog of pain which blurred his sight, he realised that there were two more men in the shop. He didn’t see where they’d come from and he didn’t care. His entire being was focused now on the spasms of pain which were coursing through his body. The man behind the counter pointed his hand. It made a clicking sound and the brute let go. Joseph nearly fell over, but just in time he grabbed one of the stands next to him and clung on, just managing to stay on his feet. He could feel the blood running down his leg into his shoe. The pain was less intense now, but the entire right side of his body was still permeated by the agonising sensation which flowed from the segment of torn flesh where the monster’s fangs had gripped.

  His tormentor held up his hand. In it there was something that looked like a child’s toy.

  ‘This makes a click,’ he said. ‘If I click it the dog will attack. Please go with these men. They will take you to a house where you will wait for our friends. There is another dog there. Not so tame as this one. Don’t cause a problem.’

  The warning was unnecessary. Joseph was in no condition to cause trouble. The two men who came towards him were huge, in any case, with broad chests and shoulders to match, like walking beer barrels. They both had long brown hair, twisted into a ponytail, and a moustache. They looked almost identical, like a tag wrestling team. They gripped him effortlessly by each arm, but instead of taking him out of the door they went towards the back of the shop. Joseph’s panic mounted, but limping between the men he tried to clear the fog in his head. Calm yourself, work out what to do, he thought, but for the moment no inspiration came, and he hobbled obediently through the back of the shop. They came out into an area littered with dustbins, at the end of it another building which turned out to be an empty shopfront with an entrance in another street. There was a car waiting at the kerb. As they crossed the pavement the car flashed its lights and gave an electronic beep. Without a pause one of the men opened the door and pushed Joseph in.

  As the car sped away Joseph reached up and tried the door cautiously. Locked. In the front seat the two men paid no attention, so he guessed that the car was locked centrally. He sat up, trying to take note of where they were going, but the street names went by so quickly that he couldn’t decipher any of them.

  ‘Where are we going?’ he asked.

  There was no reply.

  ‘I’m in pain,’ Joseph said loudly. ‘If my fucking leg gets infected I’ll be in no condition to talk to anyone. I need antiseptic and bandages and aspirin.’

  Still no reply.

  ‘I don’t suppose either of you dumb shits speak English?’ he muttered.

  The car stopped suddenly, with a screech of brakes. Without looking round one of the men got out and walked quickly across the street. Joseph tried the door again. It was still locked, and in the mirror the driver watched him without expression. Up ahead a big road sign indicated POTSDAM. Joseph’s heart sank. He guessed the sign meant that they were going on to the highway out of Berlin. This was probably his best chance, he thought, and he began rehearsing in his mind a quick grab for the driver’s throat, when the other man came back into sight running towards the car. He got in, and turning to face Joseph he held up the plastic bag he was carrying.

  ‘Antiseptic,’ he said in clear English, ‘bandage and aspirins. When we get there you can use them.’

  In a coupl
e of minutes they were speeding along a three-lane highway. Thoughts and plans chased through Joseph’s head, to be instantly discarded. At the same time he felt curiously listless and devoid of energy. He lay back bracing himself against the raging pain in his leg. See what happens, he told himself. If they intended to kill him they wouldn’t have been interested in whether or not his leg was infected. At the same time, the image of the grinning head in the garage in Smichov came into his mind.

  ‘Where are we going?’ he asked again, and when neither of the men replied he asked again.

  ‘Shut your fucking mouth,’ the driver said.

  Joseph closed his eyes against the dark treeline rushing past the sides of the road, and opened them again when he felt the surface under the car change. They were crossing a long bridge, and in another few minutes the car swung off into what looked like a suburban street, the houses wide apart and guarded from the outside by trees and high walls. Halfway along the street the car turned into a curving driveway at the end of which stood a big, squat, two-storey house. The driver pulled up in front of the door, got out, then opened the back door for Joseph.

  ‘Out,’ he said.

  Joseph got out. This was the moment in which he had planned to make a break for it, but, as his feet hit the ground, he staggered and he would have fallen if the other man had not taken his arm and steadied him. He felt light-headed and dizzy, but he would still have tried to run had it not been for the two Dobermans who had appeared from nowhere and squatted down a few yards away, motionless as statues, their eyes intent on his every movement.

  From the outside the house appeared to be crumbling, the paint peeling and a couple of the windows on the upper floor boarded up. Inside it was no better. The floor of the massive hallway was covered with dirty carpet from which the pattern had long disappeared, and there was litter dotted around, bits of old newspapers, a torn and empty suitcase, and a cardboard tub which had once held a jumbo-size order of McDonald’s chicken nuggets.

  Joseph’s guards led him through the hallway and up the stairs. At the top they unlocked a door which opened to show a small square room in which the only furniture was a single bed against the wall, the bare new mattress still covered with a sheet of plastic. There was a window, but behind the glass it had been boarded up from the outside. Joseph hesitated, but someone pushed him from behind and he lost his balance, sprawling forwards on to the floor. By the time he picked himself up the door had closed. Getting up he banged on the door and shouted, but nothing happened. He put his shoulder to it and shoved, but nothing gave. It was made of some kind of metal, and the effort sent a spray of stabbing pains shooting through his body. Eventually he hobbled over to the bed, rolled up his trouser leg and stripped off his shoes and socks to get a good look at the damage. His calf was red and swollen, the area round the row of weeping punctures already inflamed and painful to the touch. He poured antiseptic over the wounds, wiping them carefully with the cotton wool he found in the bag, and swallowed a couple of the aspirins they’d given him. Then he tried to wrap a bandage round his leg, but his hands shook and it kept unravelling. After a while he gave up and sat back against the wall. His body ached and he felt too exhausted to think. He wondered whether George knew what had happened to him and what he would do if he did. The reason he was here must be something to do with his brother, but he couldn’t begin to guess what it was. Perhaps George owed money, and this was a way of compelling payment. They would probably tell him sooner or later, but whatever the motives were it was obvious that unless some miracle happened his fate was in George’s hands. A few weeks ago he had never heard of the man. Now he was trapped in a nightmare.

  He heard someone fumble at the lock and the door opened. An old man came in. Behind him Joseph saw one of the men who had brought him from the shop, and then it closed.

  ‘Who are you?’ Joseph asked him.

  He was short with a spare neat frame, bony features and a light brown skin, and he was wearing a tight grey suit, the tie round his neck fastened by a fat old-fashioned knot.

  ‘Salim,’ the old man said. ‘They want me to look at you.’

  ‘Are you a doctor?’

  The old man laughed.

  ‘No, but I’ve seen plenty of wounds.’

  He sat down beside Joseph and began to examine his leg.

  ‘What am I doing here?’ Joseph asked. ‘Did you bring me here?’

  The old man laughed again. Somehow it was infectious. Ridiculously, Joseph felt a light-headed grin spreading on his own face.

  ‘No,’ the old man said. ‘This is nothing to do with me. I am only doing them a favour.’

  ‘Who are they?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Joseph jerked his leg away from the old man’s probing hands.

  ‘Leave me alone,’ he said. His tongue felt heavy in his mouth. ‘Tell them I don’t know anything. If they want me to talk to them I’ll talk. No problem. But I want to get out of here.’

  The old man was looking at him as if his words meant nothing.

  ‘I want to get out of here!’ Joseph shouted.

  ‘Me too,’ Salim said. ‘But we have to wait.’

  This was Alice in Wonderland, Joseph thought.

  ‘What are we waiting for?’

  ‘The trucks, of course. Where are you going?’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  The old man seemed to be babbling but whoever he was, Joseph thought, he wasn’t one of the kidnappers.

  ‘Can you get a message out for me?’ he asked. ‘I’ll pay you whatever you want. I don’t know who you are, but they brought me here as a prisoner. All I want is a phone call to tell my father where I am.’

  ‘Don’t tell me,’ Salim replied. ‘Please. They don’t want to hurt you. They told me. And your money is no good to me. No one knows I’m here. When I leave I’ll get in a container. They’ll open the doors and I’ll be in England. No one will know that I’m there, either.’

  ‘You’re a refugee,’ Joseph said.

  The old man nodded.

  ‘I used to be a refugee. Now they call me illegal. The government wants to send me to a swamp in Iraq, where I was born. I would never survive, but I have two sons in London. Once I get there I’ll be safe.’ He began wrapping the bandage round Joseph’s leg, little gouts of flame seeming to follow the touch of his fingers as he pulled it tight. ‘In this house we’re waiting. Soon we’ll be gone. If the police came here now they would send us all back, Bosnians, Kurds, Africans, we have nowhere else to go.’ He paused. ‘They won’t hurt you,’ he repeated. ‘They’re crooks, of course, but when you pay them they do what they promise. Some of the others are evil. I’ve heard of people paying their money and then being killed. These ones are honest. They are the only people who will help us. I wouldn’t do anything against them even if I could. What else can I do?’

  Joseph lay back, defeated. The old man’s voice took on a soothing, almost hypnotic tone, telling a story which he had obviously gone through many times before. He had been educated in Egypt and travelled in many parts of the world teaching English. He had once lived and studied in England, and he could have stayed at that time, but the travel bug got to him. In the last ten years he’d made his way from Beirut, through a number of different countries, and ended up in Germany. He had seen everything a man should see, he said, the black stone in Mecca, the aurora borealis burning in the northern skies, the crimson circle of the sun dipping into a pool of red fire far across the Indian ocean.

  ‘Now I’m crouching like a rat in a cellar.’ He laughed. ‘After all this.’

  Joseph chuckled sleepily. Somehow the old man’s voice was causing him to drift off. He felt a sudden edge of panic. He couldn’t afford to sleep. Beside him Salim picked up the bottle of pills and looked at them. He took one out and tasted it.

  ‘This is not aspirin,’ he told Joseph. ‘I think you’ll sleep.’

  Joseph nodded. It was true that he could hardly move a muscle, but his
mind was still racing. He’d only taken two, and perhaps he could fight it off. He sat up and shook his head. The door opened, and Salim stood up.

  ‘Help me,’ Joseph said slowly, not caring who heard him.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Salim replied. ‘I wish I could help you, but I don’t exist.’

  TWENTY-FOUR

  George was parked a couple of hundred metres from Gunther’s shop, facing away from the Dresdenstrasse, but from there he could see the doorway. Most of the shops and offices were already closed, and this was a side street with few passers-by so he had a clear and uninterrupted view. It was still early evening and Valentin arrived shortly after George had got there. He opened the door of the car and slid in without a word of greeting.

  ‘He’s still there,’ George told him.

  Valentin grunted. He was unusually quiet tonight, George thought, then he realised that Valentin was anxious about Joseph and how he was faring. Joseph was too soft for anything serious, he had told George on the mobile phone. George agreed, but it was too late to worry about that now, he’d replied. He was actually feeling the same kind of anxiety, because all this was his own fault for underestimating what he was up against. Joseph had been with him in Prague, and now he had turned up in Berlin. Anyone watching him could have made the connection, and, in any case, Radka had told the men who attacked Joseph who he was.

  As usual Liebl had outflanked him; when George had answered the call in his room at Katya’s apartment the fat man had sounded pleased with himself.

  ‘All this time,’ he said, ‘I didn’t know you had a brother.’

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘Don’t worry about him. At this moment he’s my guest. You can pick him up when we make the deal.’

  ‘I can’t make any deals with you,’ George said. ‘I don’t know where to get any more pictures.’

  Beside him he heard Radka stir. Out of the corner of his eye he saw her sitting forward, staring at him, her face clasped between the palms of her hands.