The Trap (26 page)

27

Eleven years is a long time. When I wake up at night and stare at my bedroom ceiling, I sometimes wonder whether I've dreamt the world out there. Maybe this world isn't really
my
world; maybe it's the only one there is. Maybe I should only believe in the things I can see and touch. Maybe I made up all the rest. After all, I've always made up stories. I remember doing it.

I imagine that this is all there is—my house, the world. I imagine that there is nowhere else for me to go; that I will grow old and die here. That I will somehow have children here, children who are born into my world and know nothing but the ground floor and the first floor, the attic and the cellar, the balconies and the terraces. I imagine myself telling them fairy tales, in which marvellous things happen, tales teeming with wonders and fabulous beings.

‘There is a country,' I will say, ‘where there are enormous great trees.' ‘What are trees?' they will ask, and I'll tell them that trees are magical things that grow up, up, up out of the ground, when you bury tiny seeds in the earth—wondrous things that look different in every season, and change as if by magic, putting out blossoms, or green or coloured leaves. ‘And there aren't just trees in this country; there are feathered creatures too, big ones and little ones, that sit in the trees and sing songs in a foreign language. And there are enormous creatures, the size of our house, that live under the water and spew fountains as high as a steeple. And there are mountains and fields and deserts and meadows.'

‘What are meadows, Mummy?' my children will ask.

‘Meadows are great tracts of land, very green and very soft, and covered all over with grass—cheeky stalks that tickle children's legs as they skip across them. They are so big that you can run until you're quite out of breath without getting anywhere near the edge.'

‘But they can't be that big, Mummy,' one of my children will say. ‘No, Mummy, they can't be that big. Nothing's as big as that.'

When I think of the world out there, I am overwhelmed by infinite longing. It is a feeling I know well; I have felt it while writing, on the running machine and in my dreams—even when talking to Lenzen.

I want to stand on a market square in a small town, and I want to look up into the summer sky, shade my eyes from the sun and watch the breakneck manoeuvres of the swifts as they race around the church tower. I want the smell of wood and resin on a forest ramble. I want the distinctive movement of a butterfly—that blithe aimlessness. I want the cool feeling you get on your sun-warmed skin, when a small cloud thrusts itself in front of the summer sun. I want the slimy feeling of waterweed tickling your calves when you're swimming in a lake. And I think: I can have those things again.

Yes, I am afraid. But if there's one thing I've learnt over the past weeks and months, it's that fear is no reason for inaction. On the contrary.

I have to return to the real world. I'm going to be free.

Then I'll deal with Lenzen.

28

By the time Charlotte shows up in the early morning and starts to unpack my shopping, I have already put in several hours of hard work. I have watched the surveillance technicians with their impassive faces remove the microphones and cameras from my house. I have cleaned up. I have eliminated all traces of Victor Lenzen. I have seen the videos of the crazy author and the bewildered reporter. I have kept my anger in check—no more rooms laid to waste, no more bloody fists. Instead, I have prepared myself.

Now all that remains is to get Charlotte on board, but it's not that easy. We're standing in the kitchen. Charlotte is putting fruit and vegetables and milk and cheese in the fridge, and gives me a suspicious look. I can sympathise; my request must seem odd to her.

‘How long do you want me to keep Bukowski?' she asks.

‘A week? Would that be all right?'

Charlotte scrutinises me, then nods.

‘Sure—why not? Love to. My son will go wild. He adores dogs; he'd like one of his own.'

She hesitates, casting a stolen glance at the bandage on my right hand—the hand I smashed against my study wall like a madwoman and injured so badly that I had to ask my GP to come and attend to it. I know there's something else Charlotte wants to say: that she's worried about this peculiar employer of hers, who never sets foot outside, has been through at least one depressive crisis recently, and is now asking her to take care of her dog. It sounds as if I'm planning my suicide and want to make sure that somebody will take care of my beloved pet when I'm dead. Of course it does—normal people don't give their pets to other people to look after unless they're going on holiday, and the idea that I might have plans to travel is absurd.

‘Frau Conrads,' she says falteringly, ‘are you all right?'

I feel such immense fondness for Charlotte that I can barely stop myself from hugging her, which would surely unsettle her even more.

‘Everything's fine—really it is. I know I've been strange these last weeks and months, maybe even depressed, but I'm better now. I just have an awful lot to get done in the next few days and Bukowski needs so much attention at the moment…'

I pause. I know I sound ridiculous, but there's nothing I can do about it.

‘It would be really great if you could take him for a few days. I'll pay you, of course.'

Charlotte nods, nervously scratching her tattooed lower arm.

‘Okay.'

I can no longer restrain myself and I fling my arms round her neck. Earlier today, I had asked her whether the journalist who had interviewed me had been in touch with her and she said no. In any case, I don't believe that Lenzen would harm Charlotte. He's not stupid.

Charlotte suffers my embrace. I hold her tight for a few seconds, then let her go.

‘Er, thanks,' Charlotte mumbles, embarrassed. ‘I'll go and pack the dog's things then.' And she takes herself off upstairs.

I'm immensely relieved, almost cheerful even. I'm about to go in my study when I stop in the hall and stare in amazement at the little orchid I fetched in from my conservatory a few months ago. I've tended it with care, fed it fertiliser, watered it once a week, given it frequent attention. But it is only now that I see the new stem it's put out. The buds on it are tiny, unspectacular and tight, but already they hold the lush splendour of exotic blooms. It seems a miracle. I decide to entrust the plant to Charlotte's care as well. I wouldn't want it dying while I'm away.

The rest of the day I've spent at my laptop in my study, reading. I've discovered that orchids can survive practically anywhere—in soil, on rocks and stones, on other plants. They can, in theory, continue to grow indefinitely, but almost nothing is known about how long they can live.

At some point, Charlotte left. Bukowski made a scene when she put him in her car, as if he feared that something awful was in store. He knows Charlotte's car because she's the one who drives him to the vet, but he was still distraught. I stroked him a bit and ruffled his fur, but only a little. I didn't want him to think we were parting for good.

Hope to see you again, mate.

After Charlotte and Bukowski had left, I went into the conservatory and watered my plants. When I'd finished, I made myself some coffee. Then, cup in hand, I wandered into my library, breathed in its soothing smell and looked out of the window for a while, until my coffee began to grow cold and the world outside began to grow dark.

It is night. There's nothing left to do. I am ready.