‘Evelyn?’ asks David. ‘The fiery-headed flatmate?’
‘That’s the one. I stood her up, and she’s not used to that.’ Smiling, she goes back to bed, into David’s arms, into the space beyond the passing of time, into the chaotic paradise.
Four hours later, the phone rings again. ‘Hi, sweetie. Listen, I can’t get a lift home. Some people left early and the others are sleeping here.’
Beatrice had been sleeping too – not for long, maybe fifteen minutes or so. Her mind is foggy and she’s barely able to grasp what Evelyn is saying. ‘Then sleep there too.’
‘No way. There’s no space left, apart from on the floor. And there are two drunken, annoying guys I want to get away from. Would you be an angel and pick me up?’
You can’t be serious. ‘I’m sorry, but I’m tired and I’ve been drinking and—’
‘And David is about to ravish you again.’ She hears Evelyn sigh. ‘I’m happy for you, really I am. It’s just a difficult situation – but I know it’s my own fault. I really have to get around to doing my driving licence. Never mind, it’s been a while since I hitch-hiked. So, hopefully I’ll see you tomorrow and hear all the dirty details?’
For a split second Beatrice considers giving in. Getting dressed and driving twenty miles through the night to pick up her friend from a party and take her home. Then David’s hands win out, on her back, around her waist, on her buttocks, moving down and in between.
‘Sure. See you tomorrow.’
‘Don’t do anything I wouldn’t.’ Evelyn blows her a kiss down the line before hanging up.
Their night comes to an end shortly after seven the next morning. David has to get up and start work at the call centre job with which he’s financing his medical studies. She leaves the house with him, breathing in Vienna’s morning air and scraping together a few coins to buy croissants for breakfast. She plans to brew some fresh coffee at home, hoping that there is still some of the raspberry jam left that her mother had sent her.
‘Will I see you this evening?’ David whispers into her hair. She’s happy that the question comes from him; otherwise she would have had to ask. She nods, kisses him and is still warming herself with his words even once she’s sitting on the metro.
Five stops on the U6. David’s place is in Vienna’s ninth district, her flatshare with Evelyn in the sixth. She can still smell David on her. She closes her eyes and smiles, breathing in his scent. In the small branch of one of the large bakery chains, she buys four croissants, pleased to find they’re on offer. As she skips down the narrow Turmgasse towards her home, she feels like bursting out into song.
Evelyn is evidently already back and awake. Pink Floyd’s The Wall is blaring out into the hallway, and old Frau Heckel glares at her as they meet at the main door. ‘I’m going to call the police at some point, you know, if you keep making such a racket all the time. It’s been on for hours – it’s just not acceptable!’
‘I’m sorry, Frau Heckel. It won’t happen again.’ She feels the urge to hug the old woman, wanting her to be cheerful too. Her happiness won’t tolerate any sullenness today.
She dashes up the stairs to the third floor, feeling as though she could run for ever, The Wall accompanying her on her climb. She and Evelyn have been listening to the CD constantly over the last few weeks, and know every song by heart. ‘One of My Turns’ is a favourite, even though its sombre lyrics are laughably inappropriate this morning. She spins around as she reaches the front door, her eyes closed, smiling indulgently at Roger Waters’s depressing contemplations on life.
She fumbles her key out of her bag and puts it in the lock. Frau Heckel did have a point; the music was on really loud. Luckily the other flats in the building are rented to students, so hardly anyone ever complains.
The door now open, the song blares out into the hallway.
Beatrice sings along to the words. She holds the paper bag filled with croissants up in front of her face like a microphone.
She smells it before she sees it, and wonders why her heart has suddenly begun to beat faster, why something within her wants to turn back.
Ignoring the feeling, she closes the door. It smells… smells of…
‘Evelyn?’
No answer. She passes through the tiny kitchen and is about to knock on Evelyn’s door, but it’s already standing ajar so she pushes it open.
Evelyn isn’t there. The room has been trashed and it looks as though an animal has been slaughtered on the bed, splattering the walls with blood, dripping all over the floor, all over the room.
The thing, whatever it is, is splayed out on the bed amongst the duvet and pillows. It’s well disguised amidst all the red, glistening in parts.
Something smacks against Beatrice’s head. The door frame, but why? She grabs onto it, the breath streaming out of her body with a whistling sound. Now something hits her left knee. The floor. A speck of red is just a few centimetres away; she can’t tear her eyes away from it. What if it creeps and flows over to her, touches her?
Summoning up all her strength, she lifts her gaze to the bed.
There! Silver. It glistens and shines, brought to life by a beam of sunlight.
Nail varnish.
Evelyn’s…
nail varnish.
The floor comes closer and everything falls, falls slowly towards the red: first the croissants, landing in a saucer-sized puddle, the red eating greedily into the paper bag, the printed image of the baker grinning away as it reaches his mouth, his eyes…
She only realises she’s screaming when someone grabs her from behind, turns her around, pulls her in towards them. Her screams are smothered by a sweaty body in a washed-out T-shirt. She hits out, bites and scratches until she catches a glimpse of the face above the T-shirt. Holger from next door. His hands tug at her, trying to drag her into the kitchen, MyGodmyGodohmyGod, he cries.
She tries to close her eyes but it won’t work, she can’t, she’s forgotten something. But what?
The croissants.
One of them has tumbled out on the floor, the left tip saturated with blood. Raspberry jam, thinks Beatrice, vomiting on the kitchen floor.
The policewoman speaking to her is focused and friendly, but Beatrice can see her own horror reflected in her eyes. She hates her for that. And for the fact that every single one of her words confirms something that should never have happened.
‘You lived here with Frau Rieger?’
Rieger, pronounced like Tigger but with a long ‘e’ instead of ‘i’ and Rrrrr, says Evelyn in Bea’s head. ‘When did you last see her?’
‘Yesterday lunchtime. We were planning to—’ She stops as she sees two men in white overalls walk into Evelyn’s room wearing masks and gloves. Anonymous, veiled figures.
‘They’re my colleagues,’ explains the policewoman. ‘You were just about to say you were planning to do something together?’
Go to a party. Again, Beatrice’s body reacts more quickly than her mind, crumbling into sobs.
The policewoman is patient. ‘Take your time.’
Gradually, Beatrice manages to choke out words. The address of Nola’s house, where the party was held. The rough times of Evelyn’s first and last call.
It is around this time that Beatrice’s brain begins the ‘what if’ game. For years to come, it will be her constant companion. The ‘what if’ game can last hours, and never fails to unleash its exhausting impact.
If I had picked her up, if I had driven there with David, if I hadn’t left her alone, if…
‘We’ll get you some counselling,’ says the policewoman as Beatrice breaks down yet again.
In the end, it’s an injection which erases the red images in her head and stops the ‘what if’ game. For a short while. After that, the whole thing starts all over again.