“No!” Michael was back.
Still unsure of himself, he was certain of just one thing. No hospitals.
19
The call came at 6:00 am. Reichard reached over for his mobile on the bedside cabinet. His hand groped the cabinet top, searching in vain for the device. The ringtone continued in ever-increasing volume and tempo, dragging him out of his semi-conscious state. Swearing under his breath, he opened his eyes and propped himself up on his right arm, spying the phone, hidden behind the base of the bedside light. He had been long convinced that small devils lurked in these devices, and delighted in these annoying games. Hiding keys, twisting cables, and helping delicate items crash to the floor.
“Reichard,” he announced.
Von Klitzing was on the other end.
“Turn on the news.”
“What has happened?”
Von Klitzing knew not to bother Reichard unless it was important. Opening the bedside cabinet drawer, he pulled the television controls out and stabbed them in the direction of the television opposite his bed.
“What channel?” he demanded.
He need not have asked. The morning news show was reporting live from the entrance to the Underground at Prince Regent Place. A half-frozen reporter, holding her scarf and coat tightly under her chin, was reporting on another disturbance in the Munich Underground.
“Police are, this morning, blaming right wing factions for another attack on passengers of the Munich underground service. Last night, shortly before 11:30 pm, a group of youths known to the police assaulted a young woman waiting to board the train at the Prince Regent Place Station. Despite her boyfriend’s attempts to protect her, it appears she received several lacerations to her arms and legs. Were it not for the heroism of a passer-by, an Englishman called Michael Jarvis, there could have been a very different ending to this story.”
Michael’s picture was being shown in the bottom left-hand corner of the screen. Reichard ran his fingers through his hair, and let out a large sigh.
“Has he been hurt?”
“Our sources say he had an episode at the station, but refused hospital treatment.”
“Thank God for that! Where is he now?”
“He’s back at the apartment with his wife. They have not had breakfast yet, but he is moving around the apartment. Probably having problems sleeping. Should I go up?”
“Are you at the apartment building?”
“Of course I am!”
Reichard’s tone became concerned.
“We do not know how he will react to the recollection process. This action was totally out of character for him, but completely in character for Hofmann. Hofmann is starting to break into his consciousness. The first few weeks are always unstable, until the old memory starts to dominate. He should be given the next session as soon as possible.”
“Nobody has ever done this before.”
“I know, but he is a second-generation candidate; his own persona is far stronger than ours were. The host memories are buried deeper. Get him to the office as soon as possible. Maybe Ecker can treat him today?”
“I will keep you informed.”
With that, Von Klitzing rang off. Reichard stared at the television as pictures of the suspects were put on the screen. Then the reporter summarised:
“Our gratitude goes out to Mr Jarvis; his civil courage distinguishes him as a role model. Would more people stand up to these hooligans, our city would be a safer place. We are expecting a comment from the mayor’s office within the hour. Until then, this is Karen Weger, ARD News.”
Reichard picked up the phone and dialled Dr Ecker’s number.
20
Michael had not slept well. His head had been spinning by the time he got to bed. They had spent two hours at the police station, answering questions and signing depositions. That had been the easy part. Explaining himself to the police had been simple, in comparison to Lisa’s interrogation.
“Where did you learn to fight like that?” she demanded.
He had no answer for her.
“I don’t know, everything happened so fast. I just got lucky, I guess.”
“Bullshit! You took them out. It was like watching a Bruce Willis film.” She frowned at him. “Why are you lying to me? We said we would never lie to one another. Didn’t we?”
Her eyes were welling up, the first tear hurdling her left eyelid.
“I am not lying, Lisa; please believe me,” Michael implored.
“And what about the hospital? You were out of it, Michael. We couldn’t even talk to you.”
He couldn’t explain it, but something in his gut had warned him not to visit the hospital. He had felt as if he had been possessed, unable to control his own thoughts and movements, as if he had become a spectator. How could he explain that? He needed some time, time to get a grip, time to understand.
“I don’t know why. I was scared. I just reacted.”
“Scared? Scared of what?” she demanded.
“Scared of what they might find. Lisa, I don’t understand it either. I would never lie to you, you know that!”
He bowed his head and hoped her resistance had broken. Tears were in full flow, and she had knelt beside him, taking him in her arms.
“We have to see someone. It might be serious. If you are no better tomorrow, you must promise me you will go to the hospital.”
He had nodded his head, and she had accepted his promise. Thirty minutes later they were back at the flat.
Lying on the bed, Michael stared at the ceiling. The early morning sun was rising over the city, lighting the bedroom through the lace curtains. He debated whether a visit to the hospital may not be his best course of action. He would do that, but first, he had to get some sleep.
No sooner had he closed his eyes, he heard the sound of a girl crying. He tried to reconstruct the apartment building in his mind, but was too tired to open his eyes and get a better idea of which flat she might be in. He had had little or no contact with the neighbours, so it would not help. Instead, he pulled the pillow over his head and squeezed tight, to block out the sound. It seemed this was not going to help, as her sobs were getting louder, and for some unknown reason, closer. He tried to remember if the bedroom wall possibly connected them to the flat next door, but it was a waste of time—he couldn’t remember. The girl was now inconsolable, and he had to fight the compulsion to get up and see if she was all right.
It is none of my business, he decided. I will pop round there and make sure she is all right in the morning.
She was now talking to someone, and Michael was starting to get very concerned for her.
“Please, not again, please! I can’t do it any more. Leave me alone!”
That was too much for Michael to ignore, and he staggered from his bed. Lisa seemed to be sleeping through it, despite the noise and the sunlight creeping in around the closed curtains.
She must be exhausted, he thought.
Looking around the room for the door, he struggled to find his bearings. The sound of the girl’s voice was not helping either, as it seemed to be circling him. Stumbling over some unseen piece of clothing, he made for the nearest wall, only to be disappointed as the sound of her voice grew fainter, and the door did not materialise. The next wall was no better. He could hardly hear here at all for a moment, and he began thinking the fight was over, and they had made their peace.
“YOU BASTARD!” It was as if she had screamed it into his ear this time, and he whipped around, almost expecting her to be standing right next to him. But there was nothing, just the dark bedroom and a few grey outlines of the bedroom’s furniture. Moving to the next wall, he was determined to help the girl. Running his hands frantically over the rough wall’s surface, expecting the door to appear at any moment, he was met by just more paintwork. Moving from one wall to the next, he was unable to find the bedroom door. Frantically, he circled the room, unable to find the exit, before finally collapsing on the bed, defeated. Sweat poured from his forehead, and his pyjamas were soaked. The girl’s sobs filled the room.