Never Trust a Callboy (16 page)

Another deep breath. Do not panic. I have to get out of here, and quickly, because the dark-haired man is turning around, eying the few vehicles that are still in the parking lot. Soon he will look over to my parking bay.

Ron's accomplice takes his time to look very closely at each vehicle. As he turns his back on me, I take my chance. I carefully open the car door, slip out, and, crouching down, gently lean on the car. I must make no sound now. Using the car to steady myself I creep along it towards the trunk. I'm very close to the tangle of narrow streets stretching away behind the parking lot and which I can easily get lost in.

I venture a look back, which is a mistake, because now I see that he is standing next to his car, looking tensely in my direction. Get back in the car. Come on, get in! You haven’t seen anything, I try silently to transmit my thoughts.

I need to get away from here. Quick. My legs don't respond, but instead remain rooted to the spot. He’s coming towards me. He’s getting closer, so close that I can see the scars on his face. Finally I pull myself up, turn around, and run.

Only a few lamps brighten the dusk, which is gradually turning into night. My footsteps echo on the cobbled streets. I'm running as fast as I can, but I'm not in top form. A look over my shoulder shows him catching up. Must go faster. I have to be faster than him. My breath comes in short bursts, mingled with sobs because I know I can no longer maintain this pace. It is only a matter of minutes before he catches up to me.

I can hear his steps close behind me. I look back, I need to know how much advantage I have,...

“Oops, young lady.”

The impact almost knocks me over, I stumble backwards gasping for air.

I eventually manage to utter the words "I’m... sorry."

"No harm done." The stranger pats me awkwardly on the shoulder.

"Paul you always have the best luck, once again a woman is throwing herself at you." Laughter accompanies this comment. Now I realize that the stranger is not alone. He’s accompanied by three friends.

"Is everything all right? Why is it that a beautiful woman is running through the old town like the devil were behind her?"

"My ex-husband. He was following me. I..." My voice fails, my throat is tight and tears spring up in my eyes. If I start crying now I'll never stop. Trembling, I take a deep breath.

"Just take it easy. Nice and slow," says one of the men. A large guy with blonde hair and one of those goatees I always found ridiculous. Right now I'm just glad he's here, with or without beard.

Then a second voice; "There’s nobody following you now. It's all right." Four pairs of eyes look anxious and somewhat dubious. I turn around slowly. The alley is empty. The street lamps throw circles of light on to the cobblestones, behind them only darkness and shadows. In one of these shadows, he waits. When these men go, he will have me.

"Could you...? Would you mind, accompanying me to my car?" I look at the men.

"Of course. No problem," retorts the guy I ran into, Paul. "We always like to help a lady in distress. Right guys?" They raise a chorus of approval. "No question."

"We’ll show your ex-husband."

"Let him come."

"Thank you, I appreciate that." I force a smile. My heart is pounding in my chest, and I'm sweating. Just the thought of the fact he almost caught up with me, almost caught me, causes a feeling of nausea to overwhelm me. Determined, I push back these thoughts. Instead I tell myself that everything is all right now.

We reach my car quickly and I look around, trying to find the man who was hot on my heels. Where is he? I ask the darkness silently, but only silence answers.

Hastily, I thank my rescuers and go. I have to get away from here, I want to be back in the hotel, where I can crawl under the covers, and see and hear no more of the world.

The tires respond with an indignant screech in protest as I press a little too hard upon the gas pedal. But I don't care. I should never have arranged a date with Ron here, because there are only two ways out. One leads to Bad Soden and the other goes on the Mainzer Landstrasse in Frankfurt. Two roads which can easily be monitored. I'm an idiot.

After a short time considering my options I opt for the Mainzer Landstrasse. It has 4 lanes and several side streets which I can turn into if someone is following me, and then make my way back to the hotel with just a short detour.

"Just take it easy, baby. We have time," says a voice behind me, just as I’m about to press the gas pedal to drive through a yellow light. I come to a screeching halt in fear. The driver behind me responds by angrily honking his horn. On my neck, I feel something cold and round.

I
see the face of the dark-haired man in the rearview mirror. His eyes examine me amused. I would like to ask him what he wants from me, but my mouth is dry. I’m finding it hard to swallow, breathe or speak, and it’s getting harder by the second. Then I suddenly remember what it was like to glide weightlessly over the ice, to prepare for a difficult move, to concentrate, to focus exclusively on this one goal, and suddenly I feel sure. I feel invincible.

"Just drive on. I’ll tell you where to go."

Again, I look in the mirror, staring into brown eyes and a wicked smile. He can’t guess that I have just discovered the source of my power.

After a few minutes, we are on the Mainzer Landstrasse. Right where I want to be, and where scar face will get a nasty surprise.

Fortunately, there is not much traffic around this time. The street is clear before me, broken only by the light of several traffic lights that line the route to Central Frankfurt, and that’s exactly what I need. Traffic lights.

I drive dutifully on, then wait at a red signal and pray that soon I’ll have what I need to put my plan in action: a relatively long stretch of road without interruption, on which I can step on the gas. Then, finally, I get lucky. I accelerate out of the crossing, leaving it far behind, going faster and faster until I'm nearly at the next one. As it turns to yellow I say "I can make it," and step on the gas pedal.

"What are you doing, damn it? Don't be stupid, just..." Scar face doesn't get to say any more. I yank the steering wheel to the right and drive directly into the traffic light. My airbag inflates, trapping me behind the wheel. Scar face bangs against my headrest. I yank off my seat belt, then I run.

Pictures race around my head as I lay trembling in bed. The BMW in the garage, the corpse, the dull thud as I dropped the dead body into the makeshift grave, scar face sitting behind me in the car with a gun pressed to my neck, Ron, Ron hugging me, the murdered... body... I'm trying to remember what it's like when I'm on the ice. If I have only one goal in mind, if I...

It's not working. I hastily yank a paper bag out of my suitcase and breathe into it. Breathe... fill my lungs again. The dizziness that filled my head just now stops. I let myself sink into the pillows. Try to relax. Think of nothing.

The image of the car wreck wanders through my head. My breath comes faster as I think about it. I remember how Ron talked to scar face in the parking lot. I must calm down. I need to speak to someone, otherwise I'm going to go crazy.

I could call Anna. Just to hear her voice. To know that I am not alone and there are people out there to whom I mean something. Who aren’t trying to kill me.

The phone. Where is the damn thing? My gaze wanders searchingly to the desk. Where’s my purse? Exhausted, I get up. I feel like I just ran a marathon.

The device must be somewhere in the depths of my bag. With a sigh, I empty everything out onto the bed. I search through it, moving apart the smorgasbord of hankies, coins, make-up utensils and old receipts. There now, in the midst of the thousands of things that I drag around with me every day, I find it. With agitated hand movements I return everything to the bag. And then... that's weird.

It takes a long time before I can move again. Released from the shock I go to the closet and search for the hair that I had fixed there. The hair that is meant to assure me that no one was in the room. No one except me.

It's gone.

Slowly, I turn around and walk over to the window as if in a trance. I look out, searching the road for a car, for the men who pursue me.

It’s empty.

Below there is nothing to be seen except a lonely street light which illuminates the darkness.

I turn back around with a relieved sigh. I have some more time. I can disappear before they come again.

Hastily I stuff everything within easy reach into a suitcase. Then I stumble into the bathroom. With trembling hands I throw my shampoo into the bag. A tumbler falls, but it doesn’t matter. They should see that it was a hasty departure. That makes the whole thing more believable.

The locks on the case snap shut. Quick now. It may not be long until they come. The storeroom already has one of my cases inside, now I add the second.

Then back to the room. I let my gaze drift across the room, hopefully I've not forgotten anything... The gun! Where's the gun? My desperate search is interrupted by steps on the stairs.

My heart stands still.

Thinking quickly I climb up the shelves in the closet. I throw my hand bag into the narrow compartment above me and pray that I can squeeze myself inside, because it is damn small. I stuff two cushions in front of me as protection from prying eyes and slide all the way back, then quietly close the cabinet doors. The shelf is deeper than I thought. Good. Maybe I have a chance. Maybe God will be gracious once again.

There is hardly a sound as the door to my room quietly opens. I break out in a sweat. My breath comes in choppy bursts. I painstakingly try to calm myself down. If I panic now, I'm as good as dead.

If I could, I would think of something beautiful, but my imagination has gone on strike. All of my senses are focused on the sounds coming from my room. The fact that I can see nothing, do nothing, almost drives me crazy.

Then I hear it, a phone ringing.

"She must have checked out. Her luggage is gone," murmurs the intruder. I can hear him, as if he were standing next to me.

His footfalls sound further off. Then he opens the doors of the bathroom cabinet. "She's gone. Fucking hell," he growls.

"Ask the porter when she left." Then there is a moment of silence. "So what if it’s paid a week in advance, doesn't he know anything else? What do you mean, she could have left at any time? Damn it!"

A loud crash breaks the silence, so loud that I bump my head in fright.

Another noise, this time it’s the cupboard doors. Light floods in. I’m going to be sick. It's over. It’s just a few seconds until he’ll see me. I stop breathing. I hold my breath until I can feel it in my ears.

He rummages around in the closet below me. He pushes the hangers along the rail, even though there are no garments hanging on them. Some of the hangers fall on the floor, but he just kicks them away. Then he pulls out the pillow that I stuffed in front of me to hide myself. Any second he’ll see me.

"He’s what? The idiot let himself be taken to the hospital. How did that happen?" The cupboard door is slammed shut. "What an idiot, he let her drive into a traffic light? This cannot be happening!"

His footfalls get fainter again. The door to the room slams. Exhausted, I close my eyes and breathe deeply, filling my lungs with oxygen.

S
everal hours pass before I dare to crawl out of my hiding place. Only when I get cramps in my back, and I can stand it no longer do I climb out, tired and battered.

Carefully, I sneak over to the window. Peering through the crack in the curtain, I can see the empty street. Maybe I got lucky. Maybe they're actually gone.

I leave the suitcases in the store room, take only my purse, and then I run down the stairs, out the back door and sprint to the nearest taxi rank.

I'm just sitting safely in the taxi when I realize that I have no idea where I want to go. I could go to another hotel, but Ron's ability to track me down is slowly starting to scare me. I need a place where I feel safe, a place no one would suspect, a place where Ron cannot find me.

I need to think, alone, but the driver keeps staring annoyed in the rearview mirror, waiting to know where I'm going.

I tell him to drive in the direction of the trade fair. That's far enough to give me time to think. At this time of day, there’s very little traffic, everywhere is couched in a deep stillness, waiting for the commuter traffic which will rush through the streets Monday morning. Exhausted I lean back in my seat. The question of where I can find shelter runs round and round my head, and then I have an idea.

A sleepy Christian opens the front door, after I have repeatedly rung the doorbell. You can see by looking at him that I got him out of bed, his eyes are tired, and he is wearing only a pair of old jeans and a t-shirt.

"Can I come in?" I ask.

"Do you always visit people this late?" he mumbles as he steps aside to let me in.

"You said I could call you any time. Day and night,” I remind him.

"Yes, but I was thinking about more normal times of the day, not three o'clock in the morning."

Without answering I follow him through the brightly lit hallway. I'm glad to be here, now I can only hope that he doesn’t throw me out when he finds out what I want.

“How about a cup of coffee?” he interrupts my thoughts.

"A coffee would be heaven." With a deep sigh I sit down at the small bistro table in his kitchen. It’s a designer kitchen, cozy despite the shining worktops and bright cupboard doors. It looks as if someone actually cooks here. I lean back in the chair and close my eyes. God, I'm tired. It seems to me that years have passed since I was in Ibiza.

A faint gurgling reveals that the coffee machine is working. I open my eyes again. The coffee machine looks like it could also iron and act as an interpreter.

A hot, comforting cup of coffee soon sits before me. Christian sits down, looking at me expectantly. I act as though I haven’t noticed and instead watch fascinated as the coffee vapor rises, then take a sip of the boiling hot drink.