The Trap (27 page)

29

My world is a thousand-square-metre disc and I am standing on the edge. Out there, on the other side of my front door, lurks my fear.

I push down the handle, open the door. Before me is darkness. For the first time in many years I'm wearing a coat.

I take a tiny step and the stabbing pain in my head is back. But I have to get through this—through the fear. The front door falls shut behind me; there's something final about the sound it makes. Night air hits me in the face. The stars twinkle in a cold sky. All at once, I'm unbelievably hot; my guts seize up. But I take another step, and another. I am a lonely seafarer on foreign waters. I am the last human being on a deserted planet. I stumble on—ever onward. I reach the edge of the terrace. It is black all around me.

This is where the grass begins. I set one foot in front of the other, feeling the soft meadow beneath my feet. Then I stop, out of breath. The darkness is inside me. I feel sweat on my forehead.

My fear is a dark well that I have fallen into. I'm suspended vertically in the water. I try to touch the bottom with my toes, but there's nothing there, only blackness. I close my eyes and let myself fall. I'm sinking in the dark, my body is drifting down, swallowed by the water; I'm being sucked down. The well is bottomless; I'm sinking deeper and deeper and I let it happen: my eyes closed, arms waving above me like waterweed. Then, all of a sudden, I reach the bottom of the well, cool and firm. I feel it brush my toes, and soon my weight is resting on it and I'm standing.

I open my eyes and notice in amazement that here, in the heart of darkness, I can stand and breathe effortlessly. I look about me.

The lake is still. A light breeze whispers at the edge of the woods. There are crackling, rustling noises all around me. Birds in the undergrowth, perhaps, or a busy hedgehog or prowling cat, and I realise how much life there is here, even if I can't see it. I am not alone—all those animals in the woods, on the meadow, in the lake and on the shore—all the roedeer and red deer, all the foxes and wild boars and martens, all the little owls and tawny owls and barn owls, the trout and the pike, the grasshoppers, ladybirds and gnats. So much life.

A smile steals onto my lips. I am standing at the edge of the meadow. There's nothing left of my fear. I set off again. I step out into Van Gogh's starry night. I look about me; the stars make streaks and the moon is a smudge in the viscous, gleaming night sky.

I think to myself that the night is not just mysterious and poetic and beautiful.

It is also dark and frightening. Like me.

30

After Anna's death, everything was too much for me. The looks, the questions, the voices, the lights, the noise, the speed—and the panic attacks, which at first only struck when I saw a knife or heard a certain song but were soon triggered by all sorts of things. A passer-by wearing Anna's perfume, bloody meat on display in a butcher's window—pretty much anything. That glare in my head, the pain behind my eyeballs, that keen, red feeling. And no control.

It did me good to stay at home for a while: to be alone, getting some peace and quiet, writing a new book. Getting up in the morning, working, eating, working some more, sleeping. Making up stories where nobody had to die. Living in a world in which there was no danger.

People think it's hard not to leave your house for over a decade. They think it's easy to go out. And they're right; it is easy to go out. But it's also easy not to go out. A few days soon become a few weeks; a few weeks become months and years. That sounds like an immensely long time. But it's only ever one more day strung on to those that have gone before.

At first, nobody noticed I'd stopped leaving the house. Linda was around; she made phone calls and wrote emails, and when do we actually find time to see each other, we all have such an awful lot to do. But at some point my publishers asked whether I wanted to give a few readings again, and I said no. Friends were married or buried and I was asked to the weddings and funerals, and I said no. I won prizes and was invited to the award ceremonies, and I said no.

In the end, people caught on. When the rumours about a mysterious illness started, I was thrilled. Until then, I had tried to overcome my fear; I had stood and battled with myself at the front door, willing myself across the threshold and failing miserably.

But this wonderful illness, invented and spread about by some big, lying daily paper, released me from all that. The invitations ceased. Suddenly I was no longer rude and antisocial but, at worst, to be pitied—and at best, brave. The whole thing was even a boon to my literary career. Linda Conrads, the author with the mysterious illness, who lived cut off from society, sold better than the flesh-and-blood Linda Conrads, who shook your hand and talked to you at readings. So I never denied the rumours. Why should I? I certainly wasn't interested in talking about my panic attacks.

Now I have the feeling I am being drawn into a book of fairy tales that I haven't looked at for eleven years. I'm sitting in a taxi, speeding through the night, my head against the window and my eyes drinking in the world as it flashes by.

I look up. The night sky is an inky black curtain with pink clouds drifting past it like acrobats. Every now and then, stars sparkle. The real world is so much more magical, so much more incredible than I remembered it. I feel dizzy when I think of the almost infinite possibilities it offers me.

It's almost more than I can bear—the wild, restless feeling that spreads through my chest when it becomes clear in my mind:
I am free.

It is dark, but the lights and the oncoming cars, the speed and the movement and the life around me are mesmerising. We're coming into town; the traffic's growing heavier and the streets are filling up, even though it is late. I am on safari, watching the passers-by as if they were exotic animals; as if I'd never seen anything like it in my life. Here is a mother and her young; she carries the creature strapped to her belly, its plump legs idly kicking. There is an elderly couple holding hands; they make me think of my parents and I swiftly avert my gaze. Over there, a horde of animals—five, no, six of them—are walking along the pavement, heads bowed, eyes fixed on the mobile phones that they're tapping away at distractedly. These teenagers filling the streets were still toddlers when I was last here.

I recognise the town, and at the same time I don't. I knew there was nothing left but chains—supermarket and discount-store and fast-food and coffee-shop and bookshop chains. I read the papers; I know things like that. But I hadn't seen them with my own eyes.

The taxi stops with a jolt and I give a start. We're in a quiet residential area on the edge of town—pretty little houses, well-kept front gardens, bicycles. If it were Sunday, I'd be able to glimpse the last minutes of a crime series through most of the living-room windows.

‘We're there,' the driver says drily. ‘That's twenty-six twenty.'

I pull a bundle of notes out of my trouser pocket. I'm not used to handling cash; I've done all my shopping online for so long. I find a twenty euro note and a tenner and relish the feel of real money. I give the notes to the man and tell him: ‘Keep the change.'

I'd like to stay sitting here a bit longer and delay things, but I know I've already gone too far tonight to turn back.

I open the door of the car. I ignore the impulse to shut it again straight away. I ignore the pain in my head and pulling myself together, I get out and stumble to the door of number eleven, which looks exactly the same as number nine and number thirteen. I ignore the feelings that well up inside me at the familiar crunch of my footsteps on the gravel path. I trigger the motion detector and jump when a lamp lights up the path and announces my arrival. I see movement behind the curtains and hold back a curse; I'd like to have had the time to collect myself.

I climb the three steps to the front door, put my finger on the bell, and even before I can push it, the door swings open.

‘Linda,' the man says.

‘Dad,' I say.

My mother appears behind him—roughly five foot three of shock. My parents stand in the door and stare. Then, both at the same time, they come out of their stupor and clasp me to them, and all three of us are locked in one big hug. My relief tastes of the sweet cherries in our garden—of sorrel and daisies and all the smells of my childhood.

A little while later, we're in the front room drinking tea, my parents sitting next to one another on the sofa, and me opposite them in my favourite armchair. The way to this armchair led along a hall covered in photographs from my childhood and teenage years—Linda and Anna camping, Linda and Anna at a sleepover, Linda and Anna at Christmas, Linda and Anna at Mardi Gras. I tried not to look.

Out of the corner of my eye, I can see the flicker of the TV that my mother switched on as a kind of displacement activity. I have tried to explain to my parents how it's possible that I'm here, suddenly leaving the house again. I've told them that I'm better and have something important to deal with and, surprisingly, that seemed to satisfy them for the time being. Now we're sitting here. We look at each other shyly; we have so much to talk about that we don't know what to say.

On the coffee table are sandwiches that my mother rustled up. She still feels the need to feed me. I'm in a daze; it's all far too surreal—the woodchip, the cuckoo clock, the carpet, the family photos, the familiar smells—incredible. And incredible that I'm here at all.

I cast a stolen glance at my parents. They have aged in different ways. My mother looks almost the same—perhaps a little more delicate than she used to be, but otherwise not much changed. She is short, thin, sensibly dressed, her trim, old-fashioned hairdo newly dyed a reddish brown. Dad, on the other hand, has grown old. All those years. The left corner of his mouth droops limply. His hands tremble and he tries to hide it.

I grip my teacup as if it were a lifeline and let my gaze wander around the room. It comes to rest on the bookcases to my left. One row of books in particular catches my attention—that special typeface. It looks familiar. I have a closer look and realise that they're my books standing there on the shelf—two copies of each of my novels in strict chronological order. I swallow. I'd always thought my parents weren't interested in my books, and I certainly didn't think they read them. They never mentioned my writing—neither the short stories I concocted as a teenager, nor the novels I wrote in my early twenties. We never talked about my unsuccessful early work or the subsequent bestsellers. They never enquired about them or asked me to send them copies. It was a disappointment to me for years, until, in the end, I forgot about it. But now I see that they had my books all along—every one of them—and in duplicate. Maybe a set each—or spares, in case any were mislaid.

I'm about to ask, when my mother clears her throat—her surreptitious way of opening the conversation.

I had intended to be the first to talk and get it over and done with. But I can't find the words. How do you do it? How do you ask your parents if they think you're a murderer? And how do you bear the answer?

‘Linda,' my mother begins, and immediately breaks off, swallowing a lump in her throat. ‘Linda, I'd like you to know that I understand you.'

My father nods emphatically.

‘Yes, me too,' he says. ‘I mean, it came as a shock, of course. But your mother and I have talked it over and we understand why you're doing it.'

I don't understand.

‘And I'd like to apologise,' my mother says. ‘For hanging up when you rang the other night. I felt awful about it—as soon as I'd done it, in fact. I even rang you back the next day, but I couldn't get through.'

I frown. My first impulse is to disagree. I always know when someone rings. I am—in the truest sense of the word—the biggest stay-at-home on the planet. But then it comes back to me—my wrecked study, my shattered laptop, the ring binder torn to shreds in a fit of rage, the telephone ripped from the wall and dashed to pieces on the floor. Okay. But what are they talking about?

‘You can do what you want, of course; it's your story,' my mother says. ‘At the end of the day, it's your experience. Only it would have been nice if you'd given us some warning. Especially'—she falters, clears her throat and continues more softly—‘especially, of course, about the bit with the murder.'

I stare at my mother. She looks exhausted. But I really don't know what she means.

‘What are you talking about, Mum?' I ask.

‘I'm talking about your new book,' she says. ‘About
Blood Sisters
.'

I shake my head, bewildered. My book's not coming out for two weeks. So far, only a few advance copies have been sent to booksellers and the press. There's been no coverage of any kind, and my parents have no contact whatsoever with the publishing industry. How do they know about my book? A dark feeling spreads through my stomach, thick and syrupy.

‘How do you know about my novel?' I ask as calmly as I can.

Of course, I should have been the one to let them know. But it would be a lie to pretend I'd thought of warning them. I simply forgot.

‘We had a journalist here,' my father says. ‘Nice bloke, from a respectable paper, so your mother asked him in.'

I can feel the hairs on my neck stand on end.

‘Sat right where you're sitting now and asked us what we thought about our famous daughter making literary capital out of her sister's murder in her next book.'

I'm falling.

‘Lenzen,' I gasp.

‘That was the name!' my father shouts, as if he's been trying to remember it all along.

‘We didn't believe him at first,' my mother says, joining the conversation again. ‘Until he showed us a copy of the novel.'

I feel dizzy.

‘Victor Lenzen was here, in this house?' I say.