Splinter

  Which wasn’t so simple when you’d left your ID inside the flat and had yet to register your change of address officially. He had only moved in three weeks ago.

  Besides, Thomas would keep looking at his watch and ask him to keep his voice down or he’d wake the baby and his wife would give him hell.

  Marc wondered what it said about him that he hadn’t kept up with his friends in recent years. He’d had only one really close friend in his life, and she had donated her body to science six weeks ago.

  Sandra.

  He hadn’t been able to bring himself to pay her a last visit in Pathology, where her cadaver was now being dissected by medical students. That was why he still hadn’t fixed a date for an official funeral.

  ‘What’s on tonight?’ the cabby shouted over his shoulder. It didn’t occur to him to turn the radio down.

  Marc looked bewildered. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘At Huxleys. Who’s playing?’

  Do I look like someone on his way to a rock concert?

  ‘No idea. I’ve got to look in at my office, that’s all.’

  Popeye glanced in the rear-view mirror again and snorted, unmistakably conveying his opinion of a workplace in this district.

  ‘I’m an Asian freak,’ he volunteered. He seemed to expect to be congratulated on the fact that even a bodybuilder could have unusual taste in music. Marc tried to ignore him. He needed all his energy in order to solve the questions to which his brain had found no answers in the last few minutes. Why can’t I get into my flat? If Sandra is dead, how could she open the door? If she’s still alive, why didn’t she recognize me?

  ‘What kind of job do you do?’ asked the cabby. He was now having to compete, not only with the strains of the sitar, but also with the unintelligible hiss and crackle of his call centre.

  No wonder I can’t think straight.

  Marc’s first thought had been to go straight to Constantin. Then it had occurred to him that his computer at the ‘Beach’ held a complete back-up of his phone database. Besides, the few euro notes in his wallet wouldn’t cover the fare either to Constantin’s house at Sakrow or to his private clinic in Heerstrasse.

  01621. . .? Marc cudgelled his brains. Sandra’s and Constantin’s mobile numbers shared the same prefix. He also knew they both ended in 66.

  ‘The devil’s digits,’ Sandra had quipped on one occasion. Unfortunately, she hadn’t supplied him with a mnemonic for the missing four digits in the middle. He felt himself transported back to the days when he and Benny had tried to open cycle padlocks in the school playground. It would have been impossible to hit on the correct phone numbers by chance.

  Okay, one thing at a time. First go to the office, load your mobile and pick up some cash. Then get back into your life. Your identity.

  The meter clicked: €12,30. Marc had a sudden idea. Although he tried to suppress it, he instantly realized he had to pursue it if he wanted to find out what was going on. If someone had tampered with his mobile, the only way to find out was to use an outsider’s phone.

  ‘Excuse me?’

  He held his mobile so the cabby couldn’t see it and leant forwards.

  ‘Mind doing me a favour?’

  Popeye promptly took his foot off the gas and pulled into the kerb, although he was still 200 metres from their destination.

  ‘You can’t pay?’ he asked suspiciously, turning round. Marc slipped the mobile under his thigh.

  ‘No, no. I think I’ve lost my phone. Would you mind calling a number for me?’

  He indicated the cabby’s mobile, which sat in a plastic holder beside the meter. It also functioned as a satnav.

  ‘Lost it? You were using it when you got in!’

  Shit. Marc hadn’t even thought of that, he was so befuddled.

  ‘That’s just my spare mobile,’ he lied hastily. ‘It’s my BlackBerry that’s gone.’

  The cabby’s scepticism was unmistakable. ‘You gay?’ he asked.

  ‘What gives you that idea?’

  ‘It’s an old trick. I call you, you get my phone number. But I’m not one of those. I may like wearing leather, but that doesn’t mean—’

  ‘No, don’t worry. I only want to know if I’ve lost my work mobile somewhere or left it at my girlfriend’s place. I’d call her myself, but this thing has run out of juice.’ He extracted the mobile from under his thigh.

  The cabby still looked hesitant. ‘My number’s withheld in any case.’

  ‘You see? There’s no problem, then.’

  Popeye flexed his biceps and snorted contemptuously, but then almost wrenched his mobile from its holder and keyed in the number Marc gave him.

  ‘It’s ringing,’ he said after a while, taking the phone from his ear.

  Marc heard it, faintly, although his own display registered no incoming call.

  So I was right, they simply swapped the SIM card. But why?

  The cabby broke in on his train of thought. ‘Didn’t you say you left it at a girlfriend’s place?’ he asked.

  ‘Er, yes.’

  ‘But there’s a man on the line.’

  ‘What?’

  Popeye handed him the phone.

  Marc held it to his ear. ‘Hello?’ he heard. The word was repeated several times in a deep male voice.

  ‘Sorry, I must have misdialled.’

  ‘No problem. Who did you want to speak to?’

  Marc stated his full name and was about to hang up when the man gave a friendly chuckle. ‘No, pal, you’ve got the right number. What can I do for you?’

  ‘Huh?’

  The mobile almost slipped through Marc’s sweaty fingers and his pulse rate seemed to double.

  ‘I’m Marc Lucas,’ said the stranger at the other end. ‘With two “c”s.’ He gave another chuckle. ‘Hang on, I’ll be right back.’

  There was a rustling sound. ‘What is it, darling?’ the man asked in a muffled voice.

  Marc dropped the cabby’s mobile – just after he heard the woman in the background laugh.

  Sandra. . .

  17

  ‘Hey, you’ve forgotten your change!’ the cabby called after him, but Marc didn’t turn round. He had to get out of the taxi and into the fresh air although he knew it would do nothing to stop his urge to vomit. He was usually overcome by nausea shortly after he’d taken his medication, but now it was attributable solely to his phone conversation with the unknown man.

  A stranger who goes by my name? Lives my life?

  The taxi had pulled up on the wrong side of the street. In spite of his fatigue, Marc tried to run the last hundred metres to the lights he had to cross in order to reach his office, but he got a stitch after a few steps. He used to be able to jog for 10 kilometres without a problem, but since the accident his fitness level seemed comparable to that of a cancer patient. And now, after all that had happened during the day, that was hardly surprising.

  Constantin ascribed his general debility to the side effects of the immuno-suppressants intended to prevent the splinter in his neck from being rejected, but not to them alone. ‘Your soul is trying to run a marathon without any previous training,’ he’d said, and advised him to consult a psychoanalyst.

  Marc clamped a hand to his side and tried to ‘breathe into the pain’ the way Benny had taught him when they were boys being chased by ticket inspectors on the Underground. That was long before mutual hatred had insinuated itself between them.

  ‘I’m losing my mind,’ Marc kept repeating. The rainy street was deserted save for a news vendor, a courting couple and an extended family of Turkish immigrants. None of them spared a second glance for the man shaking his head and muttering to himself. Not in Berlin. Not in this neck of the woods.

  ‘Have I’ve gone mad, or did they do something to me at the clinic?’ he asked himself.

  Just before the pedestrian crossing he passed a chemist’s. The window grilles had been lowered but a light was still on inside. He looked at his watch. Three minutes to eleven. A flash
ing sign in the window said ‘LATE-NIGHT SERVICE’. For the first time in ages, at least something seemed to be going his way.

  He had three minutes to get some medication. He pressed the buzzer. The next moment, someone carrying a plastic bag came up behind him and lit a cigarette. Marc could see from the man’s reflection in the glass shutter that his nose was bleeding. He was eighteen at most, probably younger. His reflection vanished as the weary chemist raised the shutter and nodded curtly. He was still holding the remote control he’d been using to zap through the TV channels until he was so rudely interrupted. Marc produced an empty strip of blister pack and handed it to the man, who, according to the ID on his smock, answered to the name A. Steiner.

  A. Steiner peered at the back of the strip. ‘Axemnosphalt?’ he read out incredulously, as if Marc had asked for heroin. ‘Got a prescription?’

  Marc shook his head. He had always obtained the medication from the clinic’s dispensary after having his dressing changed.

  ‘Never heard of it,’ said the chemist. He waddled around behind the counter in his orthopaedic shoes. Marc heard him open and shut several drawers of a metal cabinet.

  ‘And bring me some aspirin and MCP drops while you’re at it,’ he called.

  The youth behind him groaned impatiently and blew cigarette smoke at the back of his neck.

  A. Steiner had abandoned his search. He returned to the hatch with a small paper bag.

  ‘I checked. We don’t stock it. If you come back tomorrow I could order some.’

  Hell, I can’t wait till tomorrow.

  The chemist deposited the paper bag containing the other medication on the shelf inside the hatch and took Marc’s Visa card. He had brought a point-of-sale machine to save himself a journey.

  ‘No, there’s some wanker ahead of me. Be right back, baby. . .’

  Marc turned to look at the youth, who was evidently phoning his girlfriend.

  ‘. . .then we can carry on where we left off.’

  Carry on doing what? What kind of foreplay entailed getting your nose busted?

  ‘Got another?’ Marc heard the chemist ask. He peered through the hatch again.

  ‘Why?’

  A. Steiner showed him the POS display.

  CARD INVALID.

  ‘That’s impossible, it’s brand-new.’ Marc handed over his American Express card, but the machine wouldn’t accept that either. The chemist was growing impatient.

  ‘In that case you’ll have to pay cash, Dr Lucas. That’ll be €14.95.’

  ‘Or shift your butt and let me past,’ the voice behind him said angrily. ‘I’m in a hurry.’

  But Marc reacted neither to A. Steiner nor to the youth with the bloody nose. He had just seen, reflected in the glass shutter, a light go out in a building across the street.

  In the ‘Beach’! In his office!

  ‘Back in a tick,’ he said, snatching the paper bag off the shelf.

  ‘Hey!’ cried the outraged chemist.

  ‘Don’t worry, I work over there. I’ll just nip across and get some cash, okay?’

  He couldn’t waste time arguing, he had to get to the desk in his office. It contained all he needed to re-enter his life: cash in a locked drawer and his phone numbers in the computer.

  So he shoved the youth aside and darted across Karl Marx Strasse. Although it was late, the traffic was still as thick as it might have been in the highstreet of some small provincial town.

  ‘Hello?’ he shouted when he reached the central island. A sports car deliberately drove through a puddle, soaking the legs of his jeans. Marc ignored this and called again to the man kneeling outside his office door. He had already lowered the steel grille and was securing it with a padlock.

  The man was wearing a black raincoat with a hood that engulfed his head like a monk’s cowl. His face was invisible even at close range.

  ‘Hey, I’m talking to you!’ Marc said when he finally reached the stranger’s side. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Oh, you mean me?’ The man looked up.

  A tall guy in his early thirties, he wore faded jeans and a pair of trainers Marc’s feet could have fitted into sideways. He shielded his face with one hand to prevent the rain from falling into his eyes.

  ‘What’s up?’ he asked, in a not unfriendly tone. He rose to his feet, towering over Marc by at least two heads.

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Who wants to know?’

  ‘The manager of the establishment you’ve just locked up. I don’t know you from Adam, so I’m wondering what you’re doing here. Who gave you the key?’

  The giant glanced in both directions as if in search of some witness to their exchange. Then he grinned down at Marc derisively.

  ‘What’s the date today?’

  ‘November 12th. What’s that got to do with it?’

  ‘I thought it might be April 1st.’

  Bemused, Marc watched the unknown man pick up a shoulderbag and walk off.

  ‘Are you taking the piss?’

  The man glanced over his shoulder. ‘You started it.’ It was all Marc could do to keep up with him.

  ‘Hey, stop or I’ll call the police!’ he called, feeling rather ridiculous.

  ‘And do what?’

  ‘Report you for breaking into my office.’

  ‘Your office?’

  ‘Yes.’

  The giant came to a halt.

  ‘As if I hadn’t had enough aggro for one day,’ he said to himself, looking up at the dark sky. The raindrops falling on his unshaven cheeks didn’t seem to bother him any more. Marc had a vague feeling he’d seen him before.

  ‘I’m the manager of the “Beach”, my friend, and I’ve no idea who you are.’

  ‘This is absurd,’ Marc protested, digging out his bunch of keys.

  He ran back to the office while the unknown man stood there in the rain, shaking his head.

  ‘My name is Marc Lucas and I. . .’

  He broke off, staring at the new padlock in disbelief. There was no point in even trying – he didn’t possess any key that would fit such a big lock – but he did it, one after another, until he heard the man’s voice immediately behind him.

  ‘Marc Lucas?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Never heard of you.’

  Marc stood up.

  ‘Okay, then call Rosi.’

  ‘Rosi?’

  ‘My secretary. She handles the paperwork.’

  ‘You’re mistaken. There’s no Marc Lucas working here, and—’

  ‘Look,’ Marc cut in brusquely, ‘I’ve had enough of this. I insist you call Roswitha Bernhard at once.’

  ‘Okay, okay.’ The man raised both hands in a conciliatory gesture and took out his mobile. He had evidently done a basic course in de-escalation techniques and was trying to pacify this unpredictable stranger by complying with an easily fulfillable request on his part.

  ‘Just give me this Rosi’s number,’ he said.

  Marc clutched his neck and blinked.

  Her number. Hell, I’m not even certain of my own.

  ‘I don’t know it,’ he conceded after a longish interval. The rain was subsiding. Everything seemed to be at a standstill: the weather, the traffic, time itself. Only the tide of pain flowed on inside him.

  ‘Is something wrong with you?’ The man’s voice seemed to come from far away. All of a sudden, he sounded genuinely concerned.

  ‘I. . . I don’t know.’

  ‘You really don’t look well. Your eyes. . . Have you had them examined?’

  ‘No, it’s just the side effects. . .’

  ‘You’re on medication?’ The stranger’s tone conveyed a hint of comprehension.

  Marc attempted to disabuse him. ‘Yes, but that’s not the problem.’

  I’m not psychotic. At least, I wasn’t this morning.

  He gave a start. A hand had gripped his forearm.

  The big man might look like a basketball player, but he was obviously a smoker as well. He was so cl
ose, Marc could smell the nicotine impregnating his clothes.

  ‘Look,’ the self-styled office manager said amiably, ‘it’s my job to sort out other people’s problems and I’ve already failed once today. Maybe I can help you, at least. What say I keep my wife waiting another half-hour and see you home?’

  Home. . .

  Marc emitted a despairing laugh, but the stranger wouldn’t give up.

  ‘Is there anyone I can contact for you?’ His eye fell on Marc’s wedding ring. ‘You’re married?’

  Marc laughed even louder, even more despairingly. Then he stopped abruptly and pointed to the door behind him.

  ‘No, I’m not going anywhere. I need to go in there, that’s all.’

  The man’s smile vanished. ‘Sorry, can’t be done. The “Beach” is closed to members of the public outside office hours, but I’ve another suggestion. I’ll drive you to a hospital. . .’

  No, no hospital.

  ‘You can relax there and. . .’

  No, not again. Although. . .

  ‘. . .they’ll check you over. . .’

  Well, why not? The clinic. . .

  Marc turned and looked across the street. The chemist had emerged and was shouting something unintelligible at him, presumably a demand to see the colour of his money. But he’d have to settle up later – the man had his credit cards, after all. He would pay him tomorrow. The remaining €15 in his pocket would be only just enough to dig him out of this hole.

  Damn it, why didn’t I make a note of that nurse’s number?

  Marc had listened with only half an ear when Leana Schmidt told him her number. It now seemed incomprehensible that he’d recently brushed off a woman who had €15,000 on her and could confirm his identity.