The Method

  ‘I’m just the one who was left behind,’ says Mia softly, while outside the sky darkens with memory.

  Without the Tears

  MIA WAS STILL at her desk when the doorbell rang. Startled, she looked at her watch: a few minutes after midnight. This was no ordinary ringing: more the sound of a breakdown. Shriek, shriek, it screeched, at regular intervals, relentlessly, as if it would never end. Mia hurried to the door. Moritz was on the landing. He was watching his index finger on the doorbell, as it rang and rang. Mia grabbed his hand. Silence at last. We have a few seconds to work out who is standing at the door. The Murder Night, waiting to be let in. Past tense, of course.

  ‘What’s the matter with you? Don’t just stand there, Moritz!’

  Moritz didn’t answer. He took a single step towards her, only to stop in the doorway and stare. He seemed to be seeing the apartment for the first or last time. We can confirm it was the last. Mia took him by the arm and steered him to the sofa.

  ‘Well? Tell me about it. Tell me about her. What was her name again?’

  ‘Sibylle.’

  ‘Did you like her? Was she nice?’

  ‘She was dead.’

  Mia and Moritz looked at each other. For a few moments, it seemed as if the last scrap of meaning had been emptied out of language, as if what Moritz had said to his sister had no possible meaning in her mind. Time passed, the Earth turned a little further on its axis, a few more people died across the globe, and a few more were born. Then Mia gave Moritz a little shove, and he crumpled.

  ‘What – what do you mean?’ she asked.

  ‘Crazy, isn’t it?’ he said. ‘If she were alive, there’d be a million things I’d want to tell you, but now … well, there’s practically nothing left to say.’

  ‘Pull yourself together and tell me what happened!’

  ‘Fine,’ he said wretchedly, ‘I’ll tell you what happened – but don’t expect me to cry. I couldn’t cry. Not even at the police station. Promise you’ll believe me, even without the tears?’

  ‘Of course,’ Mia assures him.

  ‘The girl with the silky eyes. You remember? The one I wanted to go to jail with; freedom paired. She’s still here.’ He clutched his head. ‘She’s in here. There isn’t much else to say.’

  He fell silent again. Mia was so upset she had to swallow three times. This was the worst possible time to prove to Moritz that she wasn’t the cold-hearted rationalist he thought. No, Mia would have to be strong – to weather anything, like a rock in the storm.

  ‘You’d arranged a place to meet …’ she said.

  ‘Beneath the South Bridge. That’s where I met them all. When a train goes by you can feel the earth shake and you can cling to each other. I was excited and took a detour so as not to arrive too early. At first I assumed she was late or she’d left. But she was lying on the ground. She was naked from the waist down. I took her by the shoulders, lifted her up and laid her back on the ground. She was warm and soft. After a while, I thought to feel her wrists, her neck. I’d forgotten that humans are supposed to have a pulse.’

  ‘Oh, Moritz.’

  ‘The police showed up much later. I had plenty of time to sit beside her and wait. We got on well. She was pretty, prettier than her photo.’

  Moritz rubbed his eyes, his cheeks, his scalp as if he were terribly tired, barely able to speak. When he was done, he looked at Mia.

  ‘I was sitting beside a dead body, and I felt close to her, closer than I’d ever felt to anyone. We had so much in common, more than just love. We shared her death.’

  He held out his hand and Mia took it.

  ‘Do you think I’m crazy?’

  ‘The world is crazy,’ said Mia, ‘not you.’

  For a while they listened to the emptiness filling the room. Then Mia took a deep breath.

  ‘You were at the police station … What did they want?’

  Moritz started to answer; then he paused, a wave of astonishment rippling over his face. He pulled away his hand.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It’s important.’

  ‘What, in your opinion, would the police want with me?’

  ‘Don’t be silly, this isn’t about what I think.’

  ‘Mia Holl, were you even listening to me?’

  ‘Why were you there?’

  ‘I found the body, Mia. Don’t you get it? I’m a witness. The police wanted a witness statement. Seems logical, or isn’t it logical enough for you?’

  ‘Moritz!’

  ‘You’re my sister. You said you’d believe me.’

  They got up quickly. Mia ran after him as he hurried to the door. His back was a glyph of anger and despair.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ called Mia. ‘I’m just worried about you. You know what I’m like. Always worrying. You know you can always talk to me! You can sleep here if you like!’

  But Moritz was gone.

  ‘This is your home as well, Moritz,’ said Mia to the closed door. ‘I’m your home.’

  Our Home

  MIA STILL HAS her ear to the door and is whispering something about Moritz and it being his home and how it was all a mistake, when the doorbell rings again: shriek, shriek. When Mia throws open the door, it isn’t night any more, it’s broad daylight, and Moritz isn’t standing in front of her; it’s the Present, this time in triplicate. All three are wearing hygiene masks; two retreat onto the landing to create more distance between themselves and Frau Holl.

  ‘Mia,’ says the one who hasn’t moved, ‘I didn’t want to come.’

  ‘Driss,’ says Pollie, ‘we agreed to stick together.’

  ‘No, we didn’t,’ says Driss. To Mia she says, ‘They forced me.’

  ‘Let me do the talking,’ says Lizzie. ‘Good morning, Frau Holl.’

  ‘Good morning,’ says Mia. Her voice is immeasurably weary. She can guess what the neighbourly deputation is going to ask her. She would have slammed the door already if it weren’t for Driss’s eyes: two round mirrors of devotion, gazing out above her mask. Driss’s eyes are an addiction. Besides, Mia would like to know exactly which part of the story has prompted her neighbours to make their visit now.

  ‘It’s a great photo,’ says Driss. ‘You look lovely! You made the front page!’ She reaches for the newspaper, but Pollie whisks it away.

  ‘There’s a photo of me in The Healthy Mind?’ Mia extends a hand, causing Lizzie and Pollie to take another step backwards.

  ‘More importantly,’ says Lizze, ‘this arrived today.’ She pulls a letter from her tabard and holds it up with both hands. From the look on her face, it could easily be a message from the Almighty, except God, of course, is dead. ‘Date, dear Frau so-and-so, with regard to, and so forth. Listen to this: “It has come to our attention that a resident of your block has been convicted for breaching the Health Code. Infractions of this nature may prejudice your status as a monitored household and will be taken into consideration when you apply to renew your licence next year.”’

  ‘Who cares about the letter?’ says Driss. ‘The article is great. It was written by your friend. Do you think he’ll call again soon?’

  ‘I care about the letter,’ says Pollie from behind Lizzie. ‘You’re not the only one who lives here, Frau Holl.’

  ‘It’s our house,’ says Lizzie. ‘We put a lot of effort into keeping it nice.’

  ‘Looking after it, cleaning it.’

  ‘It’s nothing personal. It’s just important to be considerate.’

  ‘Let me see the article,’ says Mia.

  ‘Relocation would be in everyone’s best interests,’ says Lizzie. ‘Including yours.’

  ‘I beg your pardon,’ says Mia. Behind her, in the living room, the ideal inamorata laughs.

  ‘I think you should stay,’ says Driss. ‘Not everyone is the sister of a celebrity. I think it’s cool.’

  ‘Are you crazy, Driss?’ asks Pollie. ‘Do you want to be next?’

  ‘They’ll be writing about you in the paper before you know it,’
says Lizzie.

  ‘Thank you, ladies,’ says Mia, ‘but I’d like you to leave.’

  ‘No,’ snaps Pollie. ‘You’re the one who’s going to leave.’

  ‘Leave me alone!’ shouts Mia.

  She steps forward and her neighbours take flight. Pollie is so startled that she drops her copy of The Healthy Mind. The newspaper lands on the top step.

  Vigilance Required

  Mens Sana: The Healthy Mind, Monday 14 July

  Heinrich Kramer appeals for civil vigilance in response to heightened terrorist threat

  OPTIMISM IS A virtue, but virtue alone is not enough to protect our society from the rising tide of terrorism. This is the lesson that should be learned from the announcement last night that further strikes are on the way.

  Radicalised resistance groups pose a serious threat to our society, a threat that is growing by the day. The time has come for our politicians and media to face the truth, no matter how painful it may be. We can no longer ignore the fact that certain individuals – people who appear to lead entirely normal lives – are prepared to wage war on the Method and therefore against the citizens of this state. Tomorrow’s terrorist could be an apparently harmless acquaintance, neighbour, colleague or friend. These people do not conform to a single demographic or socio-economic profile; they disguise themselves in all walks of life. Method Defence holds detailed information on the operational resources, communication lines and planned activities of key PRI cells, but the wider network of sympathisers, lone fanatics and independent resistance groups is all but impossible to monitor and control.

  The authorities are reluctant to release detailed information until measures are in place to neutralise the threat. Reliable sources believe the next strike is likely to involve biological weapons. Possible targets include the purification plants for air and water, which could be hijacked by terrorists seeking to perpetrate a bacterial or viral attack.

  Given the information blackout, we can only speculate about the identity of the individuals behind the threat. According to experts, the campaign of violence may well be linked to twenty-seven-year-old Moritz Holl, who was under investigation by Method Defence in the run-up to his death in May this year. The convicted murderer and rapist kicked up a media storm when he refused to accept responsibility for his crimes and subsequently eluded official justice by killing himself in prison. Readers of this paper will remember his oft-cited mantra, ‘You are sacrificing me on the altar of your delusions’, which anti-Method propagandists have adopted in their campaign.

  The Healthy Mind has since learned that Moritz Holl’s childhood was blighted by illness. ‘He thought nobody understood him – our parents, his friends, me,’ said his sister, Mia Holl. ‘He talked more to plants and animals than to us.’ This latest information confirms the view of Moritz Holl as an enemy combatant, and the new wave of PRI violence is doubtless connected to his death.

  ‘It’s not a question of if but when the terrorists will use a dirty bomb,’ said the Minister for Security at a press conference this morning. For now, the authorities are doing their best to guarantee the safety of every citizen, but they need your help. Civil vigilance is imperative. Our system is devoted to the well-being of its citizens, but we cannot allow its trusting, optimistic outlook to blind us to the threat. We are all responsible for Method Defence.

  Citizens, be vigilant!

  Hedge-riding

  THE IDEAL INAMORATA reads the article to Mia and intones the words in a gentle voice. From her lips, Kramer’s tirade sounds like a verse from an epic poem. Mia, who is back on her stationary bike, takes a break from her furious campaign against the missing final kilometres and applauds.

  ‘Bravo! Bravo! What a triumph of journalism! “He thought nobody understood him – our parents, his friends, me,” said his sister, Mia Holl. It’s absolute genius!’

  ‘I’ve never read such contemptible lies,’ says the ideal inamorata, red spots of anger blooming on her cheeks.

  ‘The world is full of contemptible lies,’ says Mia. ‘Just look at any newspaper.’

  ‘Weren’t you listening, Mia? Don’t you realise what he’s doing?’

  ‘Sure. He’s mobilising the troops in the war against anti-Method agitators.’

  ‘No, he’s preparing the charge sheet against Mia Holl!’

  ‘You’re just paranoid.’ Mia is pedalling again; she suddenly ups the tempo. ‘It’s pretty funny, come to think of it. A delusion with delusions.’

  ‘You still don’t get it, do you? He’s publicly accusing Moritz of terrorism and he cited you by name. You’re not anonymous any more. You need to do something!’

  ‘On the contrary,’ says Mia. ‘While I’m here, racking up virtual kilometres on an exercise bike, the world is turning around me, spinning backwards and forwards towards an unknown goal. The situation is bad enough without my doing something.’

  ‘You want everything to be harmless, don’t you, Mia? Your brother was just a big kid; Kramer is a starry-eyed dreamer. And you’re a perfectly innocent citizen on a stationary bike. The fact is, you’re a coward. All your rationalising, your pros and cons, your knowing better and knowing best serves a single purpose: it gives you licence to shrug your shoulders for the rest of your life.’

  ‘Nobody ever died from a shrug of the shoulders, but the world has gone under on countless occasions because of heroism, martyrdom and ideas. Would you rather I leaned out of the window, proclaimed a revolution and called for Kramer’s head?’

  ‘You could give it a try.’

  ‘Enough!’ It is clear from Mia’s tone that she is furious. ‘I’m sick of your empty words!’

  ‘Empty words?’ The ideal inamorata almost chokes and has to take a few breaths to calm herself down. ‘How’s this for substance? Step one – you accept that Moritz was a victim of the Method and your friend Kramer was involved. Step two – you repeat after me: The Method demonstrated its fundamental injustice by killing my brother. Step three – you call Rosentreter. Step four – you sue Kramer for libel. Step five – you find an open-minded journalist and set the story—’

  ‘Wow,’ says Mia sarcastically. ‘Heinrich Kramer must be shaking in his boots. What a stunning plan, my beloved inamorata. It combines the pointlessness of human endeavour with the absurdity of bothering to try.’

  ‘Listen to yourself. You’re picking holes in the final stages of the strategy before you’ve considered steps one and two. You’re scared, Mia Holl. Go ahead and take the first two steps, stick up for your brother. Then it won’t seem so absurd.’

  Mia is cut to the quick. Sometimes a person can be right in such a fundamental way that an answer is superfluous. It puts an end to the never-ending cycle of on-the-one-hand, on-the-other-hand. It ushers in an almost blissful calm. Mia looks at the pedals and watches her feet going up and down. For a few seconds, she thinks of nothing.

  ‘Do you know what a hægtesse is, Mia?’

  Mia looks up in surprise. It takes an effort of concentration to focus on the unknown word.

  ‘It’s an old term for witch,’ says the ideal inamorata.

  ‘A witch,’ echoes Mia. ‘Witches rode broomsticks. They were hunchbacked old hags who ended up in the oven or being burnt at the stake.’

  ‘Hægtesse derives from the same word as hedge. A witch is a hedge spirit. She doesn’t ride a broomstick, she rides the hedge.’

  ‘Why are you telling me this?’

  ‘The hedge is a boundary, Mia. A witch rides the boundary between the civilised world and the wild world beyond. She straddles this world and the next, life and death, body and mind. She rides the line between yes and no, faith and atheism. She doesn’t take sides; the between is her realm. Does that remind you of anyone?’

  Mia doesn’t reply. She gets off the bike and walks to the window. Outside, a bird is fluttering around the flowerpots, pecking disappointedly at the artificial flowers. It looks at Mia reproachfully before flying away.

  ‘People who don’t take side
s,’ says the ideal inamorata, ‘are outsiders. And outsiders live dangerously. Every now and then the authorities like to demonstrate their power by making an example. It happens a lot when people are losing faith. Outsiders are good targets because they don’t know what they want. They hang on a silken thread, ready to fall.’

  ‘I’m not an outsider,’ says Mia weakly.

  ‘Deep down you don’t see the point of spending time with other people. As far as I’m aware, you’ve only made two exceptions, one of whom is dead and the other your enemy. It’s enough to make you not belong.’

  The outer Mia frowns and pretends not to follow, while the inner Mia accepts that the ideal inamorata is right. She understands the seriousness of the problem. The Method is based on the health of its citizens, and health is the norm. But what is normal? Normal is that which already exists, the prevailing condition. But normal is also normative – an expectation, the thing to be wished for. The norm is a double-edged sword. A person can be measured against that which exists, in which case she will be found to be normal and healthy, therefore good. Or a person can be measured against an expectation and found to be wanting. The norm can be changed at will. For those on the inside, the double-edged sword is a defensive weapon. For outsiders, it’s a terrifying threat. It has the power to make you ill.

  When Mia enters a public space – a department store, a high-speed train, her place of work or any other shared area – she never has the feeling that she is coming home. She doesn’t burst through the door, shout ‘hello’, clap everyone on the shoulder and sit herself down on the comfiest chair. Most of the time she tries to go unnoticed. Some days she listens at the door to make quite certain before leaving the apartment that no one is outside. She needs time and space for herself and her thoughts. After work, she goes home instead of joining in with group activities. In the evening, she would rather sit on her stationary bike than on the management board of a local sports club. She talks to an invisible woman, not a best friend or a husband.