by Marc Raabe
The old delivery entrance leading to the cellar is tucked away beside a withered rose bush. Gabriel crouches in front of the door, gets out his pick set and opens the lock with a tool similar to a screwdriver.
The door gives way with a soft click and he can hear quiet drumming. Gabriel stops, peers out into the darkness of the grounds and listens.
Nothing. Keep going.
He slowly pulls open the door and steps through the delivery area. It smells musty, and the entrance and the storage room behind it appear to have not been used in years. When he turns around in the doorway to close the door, he hears the muffled drumming again, but very close this time. A shadow gallops toward him and knocks him to the ground. At the last second, as Gabriel tries to put the door between himself and the animal, the dark bundle shoots through the air with concentrated force. He feels hot breath on his skin and the door flies out of his hand. He throws up his left arm protectively, as teeth pierce through his jacket and into his flesh. He staggers, tries desperately to maintain his balance and then falls backwards onto the hard floor. Oh god, don’t let it get your neck!
The beast towers over him, a large muscular Rottweiler, its jaw like a vice around Gabriel’s forearm. It’s breath stinks of rotting food, as the teeth sink deep into his arm. Gabriel swings his right arm, ramming the pick into its throat once, then twice, but not deep enough. Warm blood sprays onto Gabriel’s hand and his injured shoulder is screaming in pain.
The dog winces, briefly lets go and then bites down again. The pain burns like red-hot iron. A deep rumbling rises from the animal’s throat, its dark eyes shining. Gabriel pulls the pick out its throat, turns it in his right hand and rams the metal rod into the Rottweiler’s eye with all his strength until it’s deep in its brain. Instantly, the dog’s jaw unclenches. The animal twitches, as if it had bitten a power cable, and then collapses over him.
Breathing heavily, Gabriel frees his arm from the dog’s grip and strains to stand up. Then he pulls the monster into the cellar and peers out the door.
Everything is calm.
He turns on his torch. He has an ND filter on over the bulb, dimming the beam of light in front of him. He quietly closes the door, leans against it from inside and sinks to the ground.
The tough material of his jacket sleeve is torn and blood is smeared on the arm beneath it. The fangs pierced deep into his flesh, but at least the jacket prevented it from being much worse. He quickly takes off his shirt and wraps it tightly around the wounds. His fingers shake and he closes his eyes for a moment, taking several deep breaths. His pulse calms down noticeably and he tries to concentrate.
The Rottweiler has to go.
In the event that anyone misses the dog and gets suspicious, the body should at least be somewhere that it wouldn’t be so easy to stumble upon. Gabriel heaves the stinking monster onto his shoulder. His injury there and the bite wounds shoot searing pain through his nerves. He puts the Rottweiler in a bush beneath an imposing beech tree around 150 metres away from the building. The heavy clouds split in the sky and the wind revives him a bit. In order to avoid leaving any evidence of the break-in, he pulls the pick out of the carcass. Liquid oozes from the wound and shines in the moonlight.
Then he wipes away any trace of struggle in the cellar with the lining of his jacket and cleans the soles of his shoes.
Done.
Goddamn it, what are you doing here, Luke?
You know what all too well.
Me, sure. But not you. Look at you, you’re shaking like a child.
Just shut up for once.
You’re well on your way back into the closed ward, you know that?
Are you hard of hearing?
How many people do you think read their own treatment records? And more importantly: what do you think happens when a man digs back into his own madness? Do you think you’ll like what you find?
Gabriel doesn’t respond. He breaks out into a sweat, despite the cool, musty cellar air. He scans the walls in the hallway behind the storage room with the pale torchlight. Sixteen doors, eight on each side. He proceeds systematically. Picking the locks calms him.
In the ninth room, he comes across a brown wall of cardboard packing boxes. When he flips open the lid of the first carton, a cloud of dust blows into his face. His heart starts racing. There are thick folders in front of him, organised by name. Dankwart, Dellana, Demski . . .
I’m begging you, Luke, you have to stop!
Since when do you beg?
Seven boxes later, he’s arrived at ‘N’. His fingers run across the folders. Next name. No. Next name. No again. And then: Naumann, Gabriel.
The dust dances chaotically in the torchlight, a swarm of fireflies above a glowing island. His heart is pounding, as his shaking fingers pull out the folder.
I warned you. Don’t say I didn’t warn you, Luke!
Don’t call me that. You’re driving me crazy.
Me? You?
Gabriel flips open the folder and leafs through the documents. Diagnoses, reports, assessments, letters from Child Protection Services, more reports and countless transcripts of the tape recordings from the meetings with Dressler. The terminology flits by like a series of ghosts. Schizophrenia, sedation, convulsion therapy. He suddenly feels feverish. Haldol, Fluphenazine, Dormicum, Lormetazepam – the psychotropic drugs greet him like old acquaintances that he’d long forgotten and are now suddenly standing in front of him once again. No one ever told him or the other patients what medications or what dosages they were being given. It was injected and that was the end of it. Because he had so often opposed them, they would strap him down. When he wasn’t restrained and tried to resist them, he had bruises from the injections. Once a needle broke in his upper arm and then they started using extra-thick needles on him.
He automatically rubs his arm at the thought of it. The Rottweiler bite burns. Undeterred, he continues flipping through.
Naumann, Gabriel. 07.05.1986, 03.20 a.m. Patient defiant, rebellious, having severe delusions once again. Psychological assessment has been tape-recorded. Subsequent restraint, initiated immediate convulsive therapy for neuronal restructuring. Patient appropriately calmed, slightly confused.
Gabriel stares at the yellowed sheet of paper. He feels as though the dust has jumped into his nose like sparks, penetrated his brain and then crashed into a wall.
Tape recording transcript from 07.05.86:
. . . she’s lying there . . . just like that. Next to her, right next to her . . . I’ve never seen eyes like that . . . like fire . . . red monster’s eyes . . . Luke, I’m scared . . . we all are . . . no, you’re a coward . . . take her . . . he will kill me . . . he isn’t worth it . . . Luke . . . that’s my father . . . he is a monster, a dangerous, dangerous monster . . . who is the monster? . . . Luke, you are also a monster . . . do you want to be a monster? . . . No, no, no . . . no one can see if I don’t do it . . . if you do nothing, you are a monster, like him . . .
The wall suddenly has a crack, narrow, small like a keyhole in a door. An old dream is raging behind the door. It’s as if he can hear his own voice in there, but there is nothing to see through the keyhole and he feels nothing, even though his heart is racing.
. . . why is she just lying there like that . . . I need to pick her up . . . then do it and shut up . . . all right . . . nothing is all right . . . hurry . . .do I have to go in front here? . . . it’s so hard, why is it so . . . you’re shaking . . . stop it! . . . stop shaking . . . aim . . . I’m doing it, I’m doing . . . don’t you see, I am . . . totally drunk, he’s totally dunk . . . is he really a monster?
How do you know? Are you sure?
. . . but it’s Dad . . . Dad!
. . . stay out of this.
. . . I’m pulling the trigger. I’m pulling the trigger now.
. . . I . . . now!
. . .Ow! My arm, my arm!
. . . he . . . I hit him
. . . Luke, you hit him
. . . yes, yes . . . I . . . had to
Will you help me now?
The realisation hits Gabriel like a swinging axe. The file slips out of his numb hand, the darkness closes in on him.
He feels nothing and everything at the same time. The pain in his arm and his shoulder have disappeared, not because it doesn’t hurt any more, but because his whole body is screaming in agony.
I warned you, the voice wails.
Why didn’t you tell me this before?
I didn’t know.
And what were you warning me of?
I don’t know.
You don’t know? You know me better than anyone else and you can’t remember that I shot my father?
I was scared, Luke. I didn’t want to be punished.
Chapter 37
Berlin – 24 September, 5.28 p.m.
David slides uncomfortably on the dark brown leather upholstery of the wingback chair. It is already half past five and he has been waiting for over an hour and a half with little more to do than rustle the folded pages from the file, but Dr Irene Esser is as thorough as always.
David’s eyes land on a piece by Uecker that’s hanging on the wall behind her. Nails hammered into the shape of a spiral, as if fate were a magnet circling above them that had come to a halt. He thinks about Shona, about her silence, his silence and his awkward and taciturn apology. What more could he have said over the phone?
My brother shot my parents? The police are looking for him? I betrayed him?
The whole story is like the Uecker. Each nail is pointing in a different direction. The spiral is only clear when you see all the nails. David was relieved when Shona didn’t ask any questions.
‘You do realise,’ Dr Esser says, ‘that I should really be calling the police right now?’ Her dark brown eyes are like polished marble beneath her sleepy eyelids.
David furrows his brow uncomfortably.
Dr Esser’s gaze fixes on him over the edge of her red half-frame reading glasses and she places the thick packet of A4 copies on her desk. ‘Where did you get this?’
David sighs. ‘I told you already, it’s all a bit delicate.’
Her eyes remain fixed on him across the antique desk, just like when he used to come to her years ago. Only, the chair was much larger then. And her hair was blond, and she got by without glasses. Or at least she didn’t need any when it came to talking to people.
‘Why have you come to me with this?’
‘Because I can’t work it out, I need your –’
‘No, no,’ she makes a dismissive gesture. ‘I want to know why you came to me.’
‘You’re the only psychologist I know,’ David says flatly. ‘And I trust you.’
‘The fact that you had a few sessions with me as a child does not mean that I am going to completely ignore your brother’s rights.’
Her gaze is as hard as frozen ground. David looks off to the side. ‘I thought you were the only one who could understand how important this is for me.’
Dr Esser stretches her small, wiry body up in her oversized chair. ‘Did you steal this file?’
‘No.’ David’s answer is the truth, but he still feels like the needle on an imaginary lie detector is going to jump at any moment and accuse him of lying. How is it possible to tell the truth and still feel so bad?
He hopes that she doesn’t ask again.
‘And your brother, does he know that you have this file?’
David shakes his head slightly.
‘And what do you think I should do now? This is a clear-cut violent crime. I should really get the police.’
‘This was all almost thirty years ago.’
‘Murder has no statute of limitations.’
David lowers his eyes and lets them drift across the dark carved relief that runs along the edge of the table. Deer, wild boars, hares. The desk of a hunter. He regrets having come here. But he still can’t resist asking. ‘What do you think? Did Gabriel kill him? I mean, he was still a child.’
‘I’m not sure I want to comment on that.’
‘And if you . . . had to?’
Dr Esser sighs. ‘David, quite frankly, I don’t want to be part of your mess, regardless of what it’s about or how important it is to you.’
‘But?’
‘Did you hear me say “but”?’
David looks at his hands intently. Irene Esser abruptly goes from massaging her right hand to crossing her arms. She blinks and stares at David, as if she were at the blackjack table awaiting her next card.
David remains silent and is glad that the balance of power has shifted, if only for a brief moment.
‘Not to mention the fact that I have another problem on top of that,’ Dr Esser says. ‘After all, I know the doctor at Conradshöhe . . . not well, but . . . well enough.’
‘You mean,’ David asks reluctantly, ‘that Dr Dressler may have administered the wrong . . .’
Dr Esser’s head sways to the side. Her pale lips are more sharply contoured than usual, but she also suddenly seems very mousy. ‘Why do you think that your brother killed your parents all of a sudden?’
David’s eyes stop on the delicately carved antlers of a stag. ‘Are you going to hand this over to the police? I mean, is there no patient confidentiality here?’
Dr Esser looks him over searchingly. ‘Let’s just call this a borderline case. If you’re open, then I will be, too.’
‘No police?’
‘No police.’
David sighs with relief. ‘There’s a man named Sarkov. Yuri Sarkov. I got the file from him. He is – or was – Gabriel’s boss. He seems to have known him for a very long time. A few days ago, Sarkov came to me and claimed that Gabriel had killed our father.’
‘What exactly did he say?’
David tries to remember the wording. ‘That Gabriel had shot our father, no more. I asked him how he knew. He said he’d read the file and that he knew Gabriel. That it was all there, there was no doubt.’
‘But you have doubts after reading the file?’
David’s eyes focus on the edge of the table and the carved stag, standing there, roaring. ‘He was eleven. Just eleven years old.’
‘And what would you prefer?’ Dr Esser’s eyes bore into him.
‘What . . . what do you mean?’ David asks, confused.
‘That it was him or that it wasn’t?’
‘I just want clarity on the situation,’ David mumbles uncomfortably.
Irene Esser sighs and leans forward onto her thin arms. ‘Dr Dressler diagnosed your brother Gabriel with schizophrenia with paranoid and delusional traits. All of it as a consequence of a severe trauma, that is, the death of his parents.’
‘I read that, too, but what does it mean?’
‘I think that he was mistaken.’
David stares at her, dumbfounded.
‘In the reports from the period before he was institutionalised, your brother was very introverted, but also very aggressive, almost explosive. At the Elisabethstift, he attacked the head of the home several times, went after other children, always with the motive that someone wanted to harm him or you, his little brother. At first glance, these are unequivocally signs of paranoid and delusional behaviour. To complicate matters further, he started talking to himself and calling himself Luke. It’s no wonder that Dr Dressler naturally thought it was schizophrenia.’
‘But then why do you think that the diagnosis is wrong?’
Dr Esser smiles faintly. ‘From a more current perspective, I would say it’s much more a case of post-traumatic stress disorder and a schizoid personality disorder.’
David stares at her blankly. ‘Schizoid personality disorder and schizophrenia? That just sounds like two names for the same thing.’
‘Therein lies the problem. First of all, Gabriel probably had a
severe case of post-traumatic stress disorder, but the underlying cause of the trauma was wrongly assessed. Take, for example, the tape recording from May 7th, 1986. If you don’t take Gabriel’s delusions as paranoia or hallucinations, but see them as flashbacks, that is, actual memories of what really happened, then you’re suddenly looking at a whole different picture.’
‘What do you mean by that?’
‘Well, imagine a patient was brought to you who was repeatedly aggressive. You know from him that he’d found his murdered parents a few years earlier and then burned his house to the ground. Now the patient is constantly talking to himself and thinks people are plotting against him and his brother at every turn. What could be more appropriate than to attribute this aggressive behaviour to his own powerlessness? Who would blame the patient for seeing hostility in everything around him? After all, someone killed his parents and burned down his entire world, right?’
‘Yes. Undoubtedly.’
‘You see? You’ve already confirmed the patient’s paranoia. And everything that he says from now on will be classified within that rubric.’
David nods slowly.
‘Now think back to the transcript of the tape recording from May 7th. You have a patient with paranoia in front of you and he’s started having an incoherent and disconnected conversation with someone. It sounds very much like he was threatened. And then he talks about having a gun in his hand. He tells us that he pulled the trigger, that he hit someone, that his father is there and also some ominous monster. What would you think, considering his past history?’
‘I would think,’ David answers slowly, ‘that he was mixing things up a bit.’
‘Why would he do that?’
‘Maybe he feels guilty that he couldn’t help his parents. Maybe he wishes that he’d had a gun.’
‘Guilt. Very good. Maybe you would even think, because he couldn’t help, that he felt like he – in a manner of speaking – shot his father, even if he never actually aimed a gun at him.’
