by Håkan Nesser
‘Are you wanted by the police for anything?’
‘Don’t think so,’ Tom answered. ‘I was before I wound up in this country, but that’s presti . . . presbi . . . What the hell’s it called?’
‘Prescribed?’ Daniel suggested.
‘That’s it. It’s been a hell of a long time, so it’s definitely . . . pre . . . that.’
‘I understand,’ Daniel said.
They sat in silence for half an hour or more, drinking beer, smoking, watching the sun go down.
‘I’ve got a crazy story about how I got here,’ Tom said. ‘Is there any more beer?’
‘I’ll have a look,’ Daniel said, and returned a few minutes later with a six-pack. ‘What kind of story?’
Tom Bendler sighed. ‘I can’t bear to talk about all that crap. Another day perhaps.’
‘OK,’ Daniel Fremont said.
They drank three more beers each, crawled into the caravan and turned in.
But after a week, or possibly two, Daniel raised the subject again.
‘What was your story about?’
‘Bullshit,’ Tom Bendler said. ‘But since you’re so bloody interested.’
And so he proceeded to tell his story, which, exactly as he had said, was crazy; and it actually took three evenings, or possibly four, before Daniel had heard the whole tale. If Tom Bendler hadn’t been the screwed-up, hash-smoking deadbeat he was, he might not have given any credence to what he learnt, but that his buddy might have the energy or the wherewithal to fabricate such a sick story seemed highly unlikely to say the least.
‘Twenty years ago?’ he asked.
‘What year is it now?’
‘Nineteen ninety-five.’
Tom was quiet as he did the mental arithmetic. ‘Then it’s twenty-two.’
‘Bloody hell, that’s all I can say,’ Daniel exclaimed. ‘And you’re not planning on going back?’
‘Shouldn’t think so,’ Tom Bendler said, and belched.
It was a few weeks later when Daniel was searching in the clutter under the sink in the caravan that he found the canvas bag. It was tied up with a criss-cross of blue nylon cord and after battling with his conscience for a few seconds, he decided to take a look at the contents.
They proved to be a passport and an ID card. The passport was issued by the police authorities in Aarlach in 1972, the ID card by a post office in Christchurch, New Zealand, thirteen years later. The passport photograph of the then sixteen-year-old Tom Leonard Bendler gave him something of a shock.
It could have been one of his own school photos.
The same hair. The same narrow nose and the same mouth. The same weak chin and sullen expression in the pale, close-set eyes.
Holy shit, Daniel Fremont/Lipkens thought, and at the same instant something else occurred to him. To do with fate. And that it might not have been pure chance that brought him to this godforsaken farm. Perhaps there was a purpose.
A deeper purpose and a pointer to the shape the years to come might take.
Why not? He took charge of the passport and ID card, put the nylon cords back and returned the canvas bag to its place under the sink. That same evening, he started to formulate a plan.
Step one was to get Tom Bendler to tell him more. Draw more details out of him, especially about that last evening in Aarlach; obviously it wouldn’t be easy, but with intelligence and patience a man can go far in this world. It was a truth that had possibly eluded him thus far in life, but one it was now high time to embrace and use.
Step two was to head north. If you found yourself at the southernmost tip of New Zealand’s South Island, there were not many directions to choose from.
He took his leave of Promised Land and Queenstown in the middle of August. Among the things he left behind were a few kilos of old underwear and his name. His names, strictly speaking, both Fremont and Lipkens. As well as Daniel, of course. From now on he was called Tom Leonard Bendler and in a lightweight bag hanging by a leather cord round his neck he kept a passport and an ID card to corroborate this.
At the embassy in Wellington, which he reached five days later, an official explained that they couldn’t issue a full passport in such a short time, only what was called a temporary passport. It was valid for three months, but there would be no difficulty in getting a better document when he was back in his own country.
It was the best they could do, and given that his mother was dying, it was of course an entirely acceptable solution.
He obtained his new passport the following day and one week later, with the help of income from the sale of products from Dr Hotchkiss’s laboratory, plus the contents of an American wallet, picked from a similarly American pocket, he was able to purchase a one-way plane ticket from Auckland, via Singapore, to Sechshafen International Airport outside Maardam. The Fates smiled upon him, like Uzbek carpet dealers.
A few days before his departure, he made a telephone call.
FIVE
Maardam, 1995
‘Can you please explain to me how all this makes sense?’
‘Hmm.’
‘Is that your answer? Hmm?’
Staring at her husband, she tried to keep calm. Robert looked anything but calm; she got the impression he wished he were already dead. In that case she sympathized with him, but it wasn’t a feeling she could share. Before he shuffled off this mortal coil, there was something he needed to disclose.
There, you see, another infernal image, unbidden. She was reminded of the waves and the foam. The landing strip called Death. Pick your battles.
And there was a war being waged this evening. Django stood between them whimpering like a failed mediator. Robert was silent, knowing he would lose, or that he already had. That the decisive battle had actually taken place more than twenty-two years earlier, but only now had the smoke thinned enough for them to see clearly.
For her to see clearly.
But that was precisely what she couldn’t do. She could only see red, and that was what caused the dog to put his tail between his legs and leave both the room and his self-appointed diplomatic role – because she was speaking to her husband in a way she had never done before. Like a . . . like a very large, hungry feline versus a defenceless rat, who had lost all resemblance, probably non-existent anyway, to Humphrey Bogart:
‘Robert, for Christ’s sake tell me how the imposter can know what I was wearing that night!’
Robert didn’t reply.
‘And how he can remember what Tom was trying to do before I stabbed him! I want an answer now, and no more bloody hmm-ing!’
‘Calm down!’
‘No, I’m not going to calm down. There are two people with knowledge of these things. They are the two people sitting in this room now, two people who have had a pact for twenty-two years. One of them hasn’t kept his mouth shut, and it isn’t me.’
There was a grimace on Robert’s face. As if his illness sent a jolt of pain to some part of his frail body, or as if he wanted to feign a jolt of pain – she couldn’t determine which.
‘I have kept my mouth shut.’
She was quiet. The old pendulum clock on the wall started to strike seven and she let the sounds fade away. He had more to tell, it seemed. Now he’s going to say there’s another complication, she thought, and she was filled with an unwelcome, oppressive sense of déjà vu. Clasping her hands and closing her eyes, she tried to force it away, without success.
‘There’s a . . . how can I put this?’
She gave him time to find the right word.
‘Another factor.’
‘A factor?’
‘Yes,’ he cleared his throat. ‘I’m afraid I kept you in the dark, Judith, but I . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘But I believed I was doing the right thing. In both respects.’
‘What bloody respects?’
‘Both with regard to Tom, and with regard to you.’
She waited. Something stirred deep in her subconscious, the faintest i
nkling.
‘That evening. It didn’t happen the way I said. I didn’t bury Tom out in the forest. He . . .’ In a fraction of a second, the inkling grew to a certainty. ‘. . . he didn’t die in the car. He was still breathing, still alive. I couldn’t simply . . . Can you understand this? I couldn’t simply . . . finish him off.’
He fell silent. She reached for the jug of water and noticed her hand was shaking as she poured herself a glass. She raised the glass and drank, two large gulps, not caring about the trail of drips she spilled on the table.
Can you understand this?
‘Carry on.’
Robert stared at her, his gaze blank.
‘Do you remember Eric Shapiro?’
‘Your old school friend? The doctor?’
‘Yes. I went to his house, and we made a . . . well, we made an agreement.’
‘You made an agreement?’
‘Yes. We took Tom to Eric’s clinic and he saved his life. I can’t go into all the details, but one month later Tom was on a plane to New Zealand. On a one-way ticket to Auckland. He agreed to it all; he had some money in his pocket and had to promise never to come back. I’m sorry, but that’s what happened. I’m not going to ask for forgiveness, because I know I’m not going to get it.’
A pause for thought, before she said: ‘Because you don’t deserve it.’
‘Because I don’t deserve it. I’m tired and I have to go and lie down. You can let me know in the morning if you want me to move out.’
‘It must have cost you quite a bit.’
‘Yes, it cost me.’
‘Didn’t Tom get in touch after you packed him off?’
‘Never.’
‘You didn’t consider letting me in on your plan, you and Dr Shapiro?’
‘Yes. But he had nothing to do with it. It was I who decided to keep you out of it. As I said – I thought that was the right thing to do.’
‘How the bloody hell could you think that was the right thing to do?’
With the air of someone truly nearing his end, Robert shook his head. ‘I don’t know. I was wrong, and then, quite soon, it was too late to put it right. I’d already compromised myself and given my story. Told you I’d buried him . . . I’m sorry.’
‘I don’t give a fuck if you’re sorry. I want to think about this overnight. You’ve laid waste to a great deal, just for the record.’
‘I know,’ Robert said and stood up, his legs shaking. ‘Believe me, I know.’
But she hadn’t finished.
‘One more thing. You said I was imagining things after the first phone call. You can’t have believed that?’
‘No, maybe I didn’t.’
‘You’re a good liar.’
‘I’ve mixed with actors all my life.’
With that, he stumbled painfully out of the room. Away from the ashes of a burnt-out marriage.
It was past twelve when she went to bed in the guest room. She had spent the whole evening sitting in the bay window, facing the damp November garden. She didn’t put a light on, but let the darkness wrap around her, and from this darkness a certain clarity emerged. It was remarkable. She should have cursed and raged; everything that had happened recently had threatened her existence. No, that was putting it too mildly – it had driven a lance through her life.
But lance wounds can be healed, and the hallmark of a human being is that she can adapt to new conditions, in circumstances where a donkey or a hen, for example, would fail. The past was over; Robert would soon be dead, but she still had who knows how many years left. She mustn’t throw them away. Or let anyone else steal them.
Right? she asked herself.
Yes, she answered. Too right. I have the leading role in my life.
As for Robert’s question – Can you understand this? – of course she could. It was totally conceivable she wouldn’t have been able to bury her son that night. What was inconceivable – and unforgiveable – was that he had lied to her. Lies don’t diminish with time, they grow. Maybe you can turn a blind eye to what someone confesses he did a few days ago, a month ago, or even six. But twenty-two years? Impossible.
Right? she asked herself again.
Of course, she reaffirmed.
But so to the future. Out with the old. What was she going to do?
And slowly, like ice creeping over the canals on the first frosty night in November, like faltering moments of dawn in the hour of the wolf, a plan began to form – and when she finally pulled the blanket over herself in the guestroom, without turning off the light because it wasn’t on, she was well on the way to finding a solution. The only solution.
After about ten minutes in the car with Robert Bendler, the man who was supposedly his father, Daniel Fremont began to change his plan.
He had been thinking of a nice round sum – maybe a hundred thousand American dollars – with the promise that he would never again darken their door. But this old man was under sentence of death – he couldn’t have much time left in this vale of tears, anyone could see – and when Daniel realized that, it also dawned on him there was probably more to be had. Considerably more.
If he played his cards right, that is. Robert and Judith Bendler were well off, of that there was no doubt. Maybe they weren’t exactly wealthy, but if what Tom had said in the caravan in Promised Land was correct – and why shouldn’t it be? – they had no other children. And unless Daniel was very much mistaken, that meant there was an inheritance in the offing. And a handsome inheritance, at that; with an eye to the day, presumably not too far away, when Robert Bendler pegged it. His wife would obviously have half, but surely to God the other half would have to pass to the son? Who, just at the right time, happened to have returned home after several years abroad. What had been mentioned in the caravan? Twenty? Slightly more than that, if Daniel’s memory served him correctly.
How much this small, rat-like man slumped behind the wheel was good for was hard to say. But there must be more than a hundred thousand to collect, a bloody good sight more.
Playing his cards well, that was the thing. He was quite confident he had convinced Judith Bendler that he was her son, albeit adopted. All that remained was to get this decrepit old geezer to think the same.
That shouldn’t be a problem.
‘It’s a long time since I was in Aarlach,’ he said.
‘Twenty-two years, I imagine,’ Robert replied.
‘Ha ha, that’s right. It’ll be great to be back, anyway.’
‘We’ll see,’ Robert muttered. ‘Aarlach’s a dump.’
‘That may be,’ Daniel agreed. ‘But when you’ve grown up there, it’s special.’
‘Though your growing up wasn’t much to shout about, was it?’
‘That’s true,’ Daniel said. ‘So in a way it was lucky you sorted it out. Got me away to New Zealand, I mean.’
‘That’s the way it happened.’
He doesn’t seem very keen on chatting, Daniel thought. I just hope he doesn’t fall asleep behind the wheel. Or breathe his last.
They had joined the motorway and had a two-hour drive ahead of them. Should he offer to take over at the wheel? He considered it for a moment, but then decided it was safest to leave things as they were. He didn’t have a driving licence; of course, he had stolen cars and driven them as well down under, but if they encountered a police check, there could be trouble. Although his plan was far from finalized, trouble was something to be avoided, even a Merino sheep could grasp that.
He reclined the seat, thinking that if the old chap didn’t want to chat, he might as well shut up too. He would lie back and consider what strategy to adopt, today and in the future. And what he would do with all the money he would soon be in possession of. When the old man delivered.
Travel the world, perhaps? A house in the West Indies? Las Vegas?
Gratifying thoughts. Nice to chew over, and even nicer when you shut your eyes, he noted. Might as well have a kip, and if the old boy suddenly gets talkative, he’ll have to
wake me up.
Vegas, he thought. A green roulette table surrounded by beautiful women. Plenty of chips and cash in the pockets of his Armani suit. A drink in his hand, a slender cigar in his mouth. Well I’ll be . . .
He was woken by the old man saying something.
‘Hm, yes,’ he said, setting the seat upright. ‘What did you say?’
‘Nothing. You must have been dreaming. Snoring, anyway.’
‘Oh. I’m sorry. Whereabouts are we?’
He looked around. They were on a narrow road running across barren countryside. No buildings, just ugly, low-growing pine forest. Surely this couldn’t be the road to Aarlach?
‘I thought we’d make a little detour,’ Robert Bendler said. ‘You’ve no objection?’
‘Detour?’ Daniel said. ‘Why? Where to?’
‘The quarry in Kerran. You liked it last time you were there.’
‘Oh . . . did I?’
Should he or should he not remember this? Was the old man calling his bluff? Was it a test? The safest thing was not to reply at all.
‘Yes, you can’t have been more than seven or eight. You might not remember it at all. We were on a little outing, you and I and your mother.’
‘Ah? I don’t really know. We’ll have to see when we get there. How far is it?’
‘Only a few minutes. It’s no longer in use, you know. It wasn’t then either. A bloody great hole in the ground, fifty metres deep . . . a little bit like the Grand Canyon, if you know it?’
‘Of course I do,’ Daniel said. ‘It’s near Las Vegas.’
Robert Bendler didn’t answer. He carried on driving, hunched slightly over the wheel, and suddenly the landscape opened up in front of them. Straight ahead was a crater, hundreds of metres from side to side and breathtakingly deep. It was actually precisely as he had said: a bloody great hole.
‘Christ,’ Daniel said. ‘There’s been some rock hewn around here.’
‘That’s right. It operated for a hundred years until it became unprofitable.’
Daniel nodded. They were approaching the quarry at some speed and he had the impression the old man might have been accelerating instead of braking and coming to a stop.
