Marc held it to his ear. ‘Hello?’ he heard. The word was repeated several times in a deep male voice.
‘Sorry, I must have misdialled.’
‘No problem. Who did you want to speak to?’
Marc stated his full name and was about to hang up when the man gave a friendly chuckle. ‘No, pal, you’ve got the right number. What can I do for you?’
‘Huh?’
The mobile almost slipped through Marc’s sweaty fingers and his pulse rate seemed to double.
‘I’m Marc Lucas,’ said the stranger at the other end. ‘With two “c”s.’ He gave another chuckle. ‘Hang on, I’ll be right back.’
There was a rustling sound. ‘What is it, darling?’ the man asked in a muffled voice.
Marc dropped the cabby’s mobile – just after he heard the woman in the background laugh.
Sandra…
17
‘Hey, you’ve forgotten your change!’ the cabby called after him, but Marc didn’t turn round. He had to get out of the taxi and into the fresh air although he knew it would do nothing to stop his urge to vomit. He was usually overcome by nausea shortly after he’d taken his medication, but now it was attributable solely to his phone conversation with the unknown man.
A stranger who goes by my name? Lives my life?
The taxi had pulled up on the wrong side of the street. In spite of his fatigue, Marc tried to run the last hundred metres to the lights he had to cross in order to reach his office, but he got a stitch after a few steps. He used to be able to jog for 10 kilometres without a problem, but since the accident his fitness level seemed comparable to that of a cancer patient. And now, after all that had happened during the day, that was hardly surprising.
Constantin ascribed his general debility to the side effects of the immuno-suppressants intended to prevent the splinter in his neck from being rejected, but not to them alone. ‘Your soul is trying to run a marathon without any previous training,’ he’d said, and advised him to consult a psychoanalyst.
Marc clamped a hand to his side and tried to ‘breathe into the pain’ the way Benny had taught him when they were boys being chased by ticket inspectors on the Underground. That was long before mutual hatred had insinuated itself between them.
‘I’m losing my mind,’ Marc kept repeating. The rainy street was deserted save for a news vendor, a courting couple and an extended family of Turkish immigrants. None of them spared a second glance for the man shaking his head and muttering to himself. Not in Berlin. Not in this neck of the woods.
‘Have I’ve gone mad, or did they do something to me at the clinic?’ he asked himself.
Just before the pedestrian crossing he passed a chemist’s. The window grilles had been lowered but a light was still on inside. He looked at his watch. Three minutes to eleven. A flashing sign in the window said ‘LATE-NIGHT SERVICE’. For the first time in ages, at least something seemed to be going his way.
He had three minutes to get some medication. He pressed the buzzer. The next moment, someone carrying a plastic bag came up behind him and lit a cigarette. Marc could see from the man’s reflection in the glass shutter that his nose was bleeding. He was eighteen at most, probably younger. His reflection vanished as the weary chemist raised the shutter and nodded curtly. He was still holding the remote control he’d been using to zap through the TV channels until he was so rudely interrupted. Marc produced an empty strip of blister pack and handed it to the man, who, according to the ID on his smock, answered to the name A. Steiner.
A. Steiner peered at the back of the strip. ‘Axemnosphalt?’ he read out incredulously, as if Marc had asked for heroin. ‘Got a prescription?’
Marc shook his head. He had always obtained the medication from the clinic’s dispensary after having his dressing changed.
‘Never heard of it,’ said the chemist. He waddled around behind the counter in his orthopaedic shoes. Marc heard him open and shut several drawers of a metal cabinet.
‘And bring me some aspirin and MCP drops while you’re at it,’ he called.
The youth behind him groaned impatiently and blew cigarette smoke at the back of his neck.
A. Steiner had abandoned his search. He returned to the hatch with a small paper bag.
‘I checked. We don’t stock it. If you come back tomorrow I could order some.’
Hell, I can’t wait till tomorrow.
The chemist deposited the paper bag containing the other medication on the shelf inside the hatch and took Marc’s Visa card. He had brought a point-of-sale machine to save himself a journey.
‘No, there’s some wanker ahead of me. Be right back, baby…’
Marc turned to look at the youth, who was evidently phoning his girlfriend.
‘…then we can carry on where we left off.’
Carry on doing what? What kind of foreplay entailed getting your nose busted?
‘Got another?’ Marc heard the chemist ask. He peered through the hatch again.
‘Why?’
A. Steiner showed him the POS display.
CARD INVALID.
‘That’s impossible, it’s brand-new.’ Marc handed over his American Express card, but the machine wouldn’t accept that either. The chemist was growing impatient.
‘In that case you’ll have to pay cash, Dr Lucas. That’ll be €14.95.’
‘Or shift your butt and let me past,’ the voice behind him said angrily. ‘I’m in a hurry.’
But Marc reacted neither to A. Steiner nor to the youth with the bloody nose. He had just seen, reflected in the glass shutter, a light go out in a building across the street.
In the ‘Beach’! In his office!
‘Back in a tick,’ he said, snatching the paper bag off the shelf.
‘Hey!’ cried the outraged chemist.
‘Don’t worry, I work over there. I’ll just nip across and get some cash, okay?’
He couldn’t waste time arguing, he had to get to the desk in his office. It contained all he needed to re-enter his life: cash in a locked drawer and his phone numbers in the computer.
So he shoved the youth aside and darted across Karl Marx Strasse. Although it was late, the traffic was still as thick as it might have been in the highstreet of some small provincial town.
‘Hello?’ he shouted when he reached the central island. A sports car deliberately drove through a puddle, soaking the legs of his jeans. Marc ignored this and called again to the man kneeling outside his office door. He had already lowered the steel grille and was securing it with a padlock.
The man was wearing a black raincoat with a hood that engulfed his head like a monk’s cowl. His face was invisible even at close range.
‘Hey, I’m talking to you!’ Marc said when he finally reached the stranger’s side. ‘Who are you?’
‘Oh, you mean me?’ The man looked up.
A tall guy in his early thirties, he wore faded jeans and a pair of trainers Marc’s feet could have fitted into sideways. He shielded his face with one hand to prevent the rain from falling into his eyes.
‘What’s up?’ he asked, in a not unfriendly tone. He rose to his feet, towering over Marc by at least two heads.
‘Who are you?’
‘Who wants to know?’
‘The manager of the establishment you’ve just locked up. I don’t know you from Adam, so I’m wondering what you’re doing here. Who gave you the key?’
The giant glanced in both directions as if in search of some witness to their exchange. Then he grinned down at Marc derisively.
‘What’s the date today?’
‘November 12th. What’s that got to do with it?’
‘I thought it might be April 1st.’
Bemused, Marc watched the unknown man pick up a shoulderbag and walk off.
‘Are you taking the piss?’
The man glanced over his shoulder. ‘You started it.’ It was all Marc could do to keep up with him.
‘Hey, stop or I’ll call the police!’ he called, feeling rather ridiculous.
‘And do what?’
‘Report you for breaking into my office.’