the people around me, Anna has never existed.
So how could Norbert associate my freaking out with the murder? That’s why it’s okay for him to laugh. He has no idea about that moment when I entered Anna’s flat and found her lying on the floor, dead or dying, and then spotted her murderer lurking, his eyes cold and pale. For a few horrific seconds I was turned to stone, while Anna had turned to stone forever. I was a statue and Anna was ghastly, rigid and unmoving. The whole room seemed to freeze, except for a single ghostly movement at the edge of my vision. The record player, so cruel and false, with the record—an old record of mine that I’d given to Anna—spinning.
All you need is love, la-da-da-da-da.
The song that is the reason I never listen to the radio, out of sheer terror it might be played.
I swallow the lump in my throat and push the thought far away. It’s good that Norbert’s laughing. Doesn’t matter what he’s laughing at.
I enjoy having him here. I love his sense of humour and his arch cynicism, the kind only those well treated by life can afford. I wish he’d spend the night; there is certainly no shortage of spare rooms. I want to call him a cab, but Norbert insists on driving home, saying something about a meeting the next morning. Damn it! Just when it’s all so nice and normal—a friend here with me who is as close as a big brother, and my dog asleep at his feet, his eyebrows twitching in a dream, as if he’s encountered something quite astonishing. It’s only the three of us, but at this moment my house is full of life.
I suppress a sigh. Of course, it can’t stay this way. I shouldn’t even hope to hold onto such a lovely moment. Any minute now, something will happen to destroy it. What will it be?
It’s Norbert. He gets up. I suppress the impulse to cling to him.
‘Please stay,’ I murmur. ‘I’m scared.’
He doesn’t hear me; maybe I didn’t even say it. Norbert takes his coat, glares at me, says that if I absolutely have to write a bloody thriller, the manuscript had jolly well better be good, and staggers off towards the front door. I shouldn’t let him drive in that state. I follow him. My limbs feel like lead.
He turns to face me, grabs me by the shoulders and looks me in the face. I can smell the whisky on his breath.
‘A book must be an axe for the frozen sea within us,’ he says in an almost accusatory tone.
‘Kafka,’ I say. Norbert nods.
‘You were always quoting that. A book must be an axe, Linda. Don’t forget it. Thriller or not, I need something real from you—something about life and emotions and…’
He mumbles something incomprehensible, lets go of my shoulders and begins to button up his coat. Starts all wrong, gets in a muddle, begins over again, gets it wrong again, nearly blows his top, gives up, leaves his coat undone.
‘This book is an axe, Norbert.’
He looks at me, suspicious, then shrugs his shoulders. With a single look, I try to say all the things I can’t put into words. I scream: I’m terribly frightened, I don’t want to die, I need someone to talk to, I’ll drop down dead if he leaves now, I feel like the loneliest person on the planet. I don’t scream loud enough.
My publisher says goodbye with a smack on each cheek. I watch him disappear into the night. I don’t want him to go. I want to tell him everything—about the earthquake, about Anna. I want to tell him my plans. He’s my last chance—the safety of the shore, my anchor. I open my mouth to call out to him, but I can no longer see him. It’s too late; he’s disappeared, cast off.
I’m on my own.
6
JONAS
He clutched the gun with both hands, steadied himself, took aim and shot.
Jonas Weber hated the idea of ever having to point his gun at a real person. Once, he’d needed to fire a warning shot, and he hoped it would stay that way. But he loved target practice at the range; he’d always liked shooting. As a child he’d shot at tin cans with
So how could Norbert associate my freaking out with the murder? That’s why it’s okay for him to laugh. He has no idea about that moment when I entered Anna’s flat and found her lying on the floor, dead or dying, and then spotted her murderer lurking, his eyes cold and pale. For a few horrific seconds I was turned to stone, while Anna had turned to stone forever. I was a statue and Anna was ghastly, rigid and unmoving. The whole room seemed to freeze, except for a single ghostly movement at the edge of my vision. The record player, so cruel and false, with the record—an old record of mine that I’d given to Anna—spinning.
All you need is love, la-da-da-da-da.
The song that is the reason I never listen to the radio, out of sheer terror it might be played.
I swallow the lump in my throat and push the thought far away. It’s good that Norbert’s laughing. Doesn’t matter what he’s laughing at.
I enjoy having him here. I love his sense of humour and his arch cynicism, the kind only those well treated by life can afford. I wish he’d spend the night; there is certainly no shortage of spare rooms. I want to call him a cab, but Norbert insists on driving home, saying something about a meeting the next morning. Damn it! Just when it’s all so nice and normal—a friend here with me who is as close as a big brother, and my dog asleep at his feet, his eyebrows twitching in a dream, as if he’s encountered something quite astonishing. It’s only the three of us, but at this moment my house is full of life.
I suppress a sigh. Of course, it can’t stay this way. I shouldn’t even hope to hold onto such a lovely moment. Any minute now, something will happen to destroy it. What will it be?
It’s Norbert. He gets up. I suppress the impulse to cling to him.
‘Please stay,’ I murmur. ‘I’m scared.’
He doesn’t hear me; maybe I didn’t even say it. Norbert takes his coat, glares at me, says that if I absolutely have to write a bloody thriller, the manuscript had jolly well better be good, and staggers off towards the front door. I shouldn’t let him drive in that state. I follow him. My limbs feel like lead.
He turns to face me, grabs me by the shoulders and looks me in the face. I can smell the whisky on his breath.
‘A book must be an axe for the frozen sea within us,’ he says in an almost accusatory tone.
‘Kafka,’ I say. Norbert nods.
‘You were always quoting that. A book must be an axe, Linda. Don’t forget it. Thriller or not, I need something real from you—something about life and emotions and…’
He mumbles something incomprehensible, lets go of my shoulders and begins to button up his coat. Starts all wrong, gets in a muddle, begins over again, gets it wrong again, nearly blows his top, gives up, leaves his coat undone.
‘This book is an axe, Norbert.’
He looks at me, suspicious, then shrugs his shoulders. With a single look, I try to say all the things I can’t put into words. I scream: I’m terribly frightened, I don’t want to die, I need someone to talk to, I’ll drop down dead if he leaves now, I feel like the loneliest person on the planet. I don’t scream loud enough.
My publisher says goodbye with a smack on each cheek. I watch him disappear into the night. I don’t want him to go. I want to tell him everything—about the earthquake, about Anna. I want to tell him my plans. He’s my last chance—the safety of the shore, my anchor. I open my mouth to call out to him, but I can no longer see him. It’s too late; he’s disappeared, cast off.
I’m on my own.
6
JONAS
He clutched the gun with both hands, steadied himself, took aim and shot.
Jonas Weber hated the idea of ever having to point his gun at a real person. Once, he’d needed to fire a warning shot, and he hoped it would stay that way. But he loved target practice at the range; he’d always liked shooting. As a child he’d shot at tin cans with
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