‘That’s where she’s come from.’ Marc bent down and checked Emma’s pulse, though her double chin made it hard to find the jugular.
‘She’s okay. Passed out, that’s all.’ Marc looked helplessly at Benny. ‘What now?’
‘Search me. She can’t stay here, anyway.’ Benny quickly released the deadlock that had just defeated Emma and opened the door. He pressed a switch on the landing and the stairwell was bathed in yellowish, energy-saving twilight. ‘Come on, we’d better take her to A and E.’
They lugged Emma outside, each with an arm around her shoulders. Marc could hardly support her weight. The last few hours had weakened his already debilitated body, and he wondered if it was wise to manhandle an overweight woman down five flights of stairs with a splinter in his neck. Constantin had even forbidden him to tote boxes around when he was moving house.
‘I’ll help you get her to the car,’ Benny said when they reached the third floor. ‘After that, you’ll have to manage by yourself.’
‘Where are you off to so late?’ Marc panted. He would have liked to take a breather, but Benny seemed to be in a hurry and even put on speed.
‘Sorry, I can’t tell you.’
‘Look, you can’t just run off. You owe me.’
They had to pause briefly between the third and second floors because Emma’s feet had caught in the banisters. She uttered a groan but seemed unaware of the brothers’ exertions.
‘What gives you that idea?’ Benny demanded.
‘I saved your life.’
‘Yet another reason for steering clear of you.’
‘I know you hate me, but do you think I’d be here if I had any choice?’
They had at last reached the heavy, wrought-iron front door. Marc, who was bathed in sweat, had to support Emma on his own. Cold air streamed into the already chilly passage as Benny opened the door. Then he came back and they lugged Emma outside.
‘Do me one last favour, Benny, please. Call a friend – you’ve got your contacts, after all. Check that number plate and get the owner’s address for me, and you’ll never see me again.’
‘No.’
They sat Emma down on a graffiti-daubed ledge beside the entrance. Marc satisfied himself that she was safely propped against the wall. Then he went over to his brother, who was standing in the middle of the forecourt, feeling in his pockets for his car key.
‘Why not, you bastard?’ His breath emerged in dense clouds as he barred Benny’s path.
Benny’s block of flats was situated in a cobbled, traffic-becalmed street where the parking slots were arranged so as to slow the traffic. The numerous shops whose windows illuminated the district at night were in keeping with its character. Anyone who moved to Prenzlberg was hip, modern, eco-friendly, liberal-minded and fond of children. The residents tended not to be Berliners, so the local businesses were predominantly Spanish delicatessens, English-speaking kitas, Indian teahouses and offbeat designer boutiques. The area around Kollwitzplatz was one of Europe’s most child-abundant neighbourhoods, so it was no wonder the street felt as if it were in a city of the dead. Working parents still had two hours before their alarm clocks went off. As for the artists and students, they were either asleep or making a night of it two streets away, where there were bars and pubs still open.
‘Hey, I’m talking to you. Why can’t you do me one last favour before I get out of your life for good?’
‘Because the number plate won’t get you anywhere.’ Benny screwed up his eyes and stared past Marc at the street behind him. Scenting a trap, Marc suppressed an urge to turn round.
‘How do you know?’
‘I already checked it.’
‘How? You didn’t call anyone.’
Or had he? Had he texted someone unobserved, and had the message just been answered? Marc wasn’t sure. Far too many inexplicable things had happened in the last few hours.
‘I didn’t have to call anyone,’ Benny said, pointing across the street. Marc turned to look and his heart stood still.
The ambulance was parked in the goods entrance beside a café on the opposite side of the street. As though in response to a word of command, the driver started the engine and inched out into the road.
The occupants behind the tinted windscreen were invisible this time, but not the illuminated licence plate: B – Q 1371.
‘What on earth’s going on here?’ Marc demanded, swinging round. The ledge was deserted. Emma wasn’t sitting on it any more; she was standing close behind them with the muzzle of Benny’s automatic pointing straight at his head.
42
‘So I was right!’ Marc felt almost relieved at not being mistaken for once. Emma was a threat after all. She wasn’t on his side of the abyss; or, if she was, only so as to push him over the edge.
It had all been just a ploy. The papers in the hotel room, the photo of Sandra, the fainting fit that had enabled her to snatch Benny’s gun while they were hefting her downstairs.
‘We have to get going,’ Emma said hoarsely. She was still looking utterly drained. Her moon face was puffier than ever, her sweaty cheeks were threaded with dark-red capillaries, her eyelids quivering with fatigue, but she still had sufficient energy to transfer the automatic from brother to brother at one-second intervals. She also cast hurried glances at the ambulance, which was now driving past them at walking pace, presumably because the driver had spotted the gun in her hand and preferred to avoid another confrontation.
‘What do you want me to do?’ Marc asked quietly. His state of mind had automatically switched to the almost dispassionate mode he’d adopted during years of conflict resolution with his street kids.
‘Over to my car, please!’ Emma indicated her Beetle, which was parked in a bay some twenty metres away with one wheel on the kerb.
‘Okay, I’ll come with you,’ Marc replied. ‘But first you must give me that gun.’
‘No!’ she snapped. ‘We’re in danger, don’t you understand? Quick!’ She shouted the last words: ‘We must get out of here!’
‘Be quiet!’
They all turned their heads and stared at the entrance to the building next door, but the man who had shouted at them was nowhere to be seen. The door was wide open, but the passage beyond it was in total darkness.
‘Who’s there?’ Emma called, glancing over her shoulder. The only response was a faint scratching sound followed by the metallic rattle of a chain being dragged across a hard stone surface.
‘Hello?’ she called again. Absurd enough already, the situation became more ludicrous still when a dog’s furry head peered around the door post. The blackish retriever cross-breed looked straight at them, gave a cavernous yawn and ambled out into the rain. Its fur was so thick and matted the raindrops couldn’t have penetrated more than a couple of millimetres.
‘Come back, Freddy,’ called the reedy voice that had just shouted at them. ‘Come here and go back to sleep.’
Just a tramp. We’ve woken a down-and-out.
Emma’s relief was palpable. The only witnesses to their altercation were a harmless vagrant and his mongrel sleeping rough in the entrance to a building. Refocusing her attention on Marc and Benny, she jerked the gun in the direction of her car.
‘Where are we going?’ asked Marc.
‘Out of here for a start. Not him, though.’ She indicated Benny, who just shrugged.
‘Fine by me,’ he said.
‘Okay, Emma,’ Marc said as gently as he could. ‘We’ll sort this out, but first you must give me the gun.’
She shook her head. ‘No, I can’t. Come on…’ Close to hysteria again, she uttered the next words with desperate intensity. ‘Otherwise he’ll kill us too!’
Marc looked bewildered. He stared first at Benny, then at her.
‘Kill us?’
‘Yes, he’s a bad man.’
There was something ominous about the remark, despite her childish choice of words.