‘Why?’
‘He’s broke.’
‘What?’
Another set of lights changed, from amber to red. The vehicles beside them braked to a halt – unlike Benny, who construed it as a signal to accelerate away.
‘What do you mean?’ Marc asked in dismay.
‘Broke, skint. Does the word have any other meaning?’ Benny glanced in the rear-view mirror as if afraid they’d picked up another tail. Marc turned to look but could see nothing suspicious. ‘It’s that clinic of his. He overreached himself financially – don’t you read the papers?’
No. I’ve taken little interest in the outside world these last few weeks.
‘Added to that, one of his surgeons botched a cardiac operation – defective valve implant, or something. Not Senner’s fault, but the damages will amount to millions. They say he no longer even owns the house we’re on our way to right now.’ Benny glanced sideways. ‘That is where you want to go, isn’t it?’
61
The human brain is capable of suppressing even incontrovertible truths which everyone must face sooner or later: age, illness, physical decline, death. All of these come to each of us, yet they seem unreal. Someone else shuffles the cards we play with, and much as we despair of the system, we’re ultimately grateful for its mercies. After all, would we continue to make our way along life’s road if we could see into the future?
That was the question Marc asked himself as he stood in the drive outside his father-in-law’s house. Benny had remained in the car, even though he had his doubts about the plan that had brought them there.
‘What are you looking for?’ he’d asked as Marc was getting out.
‘The truth,’ Marc replied.
Was Constantin trying to drive him insane because of his debts? Did he want to get him declared legally incompetent so as to lay hands on the proceeds of the film script sale? Whatever the truth, Marc wanted his life back, even if it was that of a widower. He knew that Constantin stood between him and the truth and had to call him to account. That would clinch matters one way or the other.
He hammered on the door. Once upon a time Constantin had kept a spare key in the boathouse in case he locked himself out, but those incautious days were long past. A security expert had been employed after the burglary that had cost Sandra their first child three years ago. Since then a CCTV surveillance system had unobtrusively alerted those inside the house to the presence of visitors and, instead of a key, you needed a registered fingerprint. Today, however, Marc didn’t have to apply his forefinger to the cold key pad. The door was open already: it swung inwards at his touch.
‘Hello?’
Marc made his way into the entrance hall. He sensed the change at once, even though everything seemed to be in its accustomed place: the little occasional table just inside the door, on which keys and mobile phones could be left; the big marble balls flanking both staircases; and the huge, silver-framed mirror in which visitors looked taller and slimmer than they really were. Normally, this gave visitors a good feeling as soon as they entered the house. In Marc’s case, this didn’t happen today, and not only because his father-in-law never left the front door unlocked.
But because he could hear people talking.
A man and a woman. They sounded like two good friends having an animated conversation, and they were somewhere overhead.
‘Hello, it’s me,’ Marc called up the stairs. No response, just a muffled giggle followed by a long monologue on the man’s part.
He set off up the stairs which he and Sandra had once climbed every other Sunday. His father-in-law used to hold a family tea party twice a month. They had all expected this tradition to lapse after his wife’s untimely death, but Constantin had perpetuated it, so they continued to drive over and exchange the latest news around the fireplace in the upstairs library. Every other Sunday. Until the accident.
Marc had reached the top step. The voices were more distinct now.
‘Constantin?’ he called hoarsely. It was hours since he’d had anything to drink, and his tongue felt like a foreign body in his mouth.
The passage stretched away in both directions. On the left were the guest bedrooms, on the right the library and Constantin’s study, from which the voices were coming. Marc was near enough now to catch snippets of conversation.
‘Me, I wouldn’t do that,’ the woman said brightly.
‘Really? I wouldn’t be so sure,’ said the man. ‘Think back to your most embarrassing experience.’
‘Oh, that happened in the swimming pool recently, but I really can’t tell you about it.’
Marc found it odd that the couple didn’t answer even though he’d advertised his presence more than once, so he decided to make as little noise as possible from now on. He turned right and tiptoed along the shadowy passage.
Mingled with the voices was a faint crackle of static. It grew louder the nearer he got to the study door, which was situated opposite a small guest lavatory about halfway along.
‘Coward!’ laughed the man inside the study.
‘No, honestly. Anyway, I don’t really remember it.’
‘Aha, here we go again!’
Holding his breath, Marc depressed the heavy handle, opened the door, and froze.
The study in which the couple had been holding such an animated conversation was a scene of utter devastation. The standard lamp was lying sideways across the leather sofa, which had been slashed. The Persian carpet had been crumpled up like a outsize handkerchief and dumped in front of an empty set of shelves. All the books, pictures, photos and objets d’art they had once held were lying strewn across the floor.
Marc looked around for the couple and found them behind a dusty glass screen. The television set was lying on its side behind the shattered remains of an empty saltwater aquarium. It was a miracle the old set was still working and hadn’t given up the ghost like the numerous fish on the parquet floor.
‘Tell us what you think. We value your opinion,’ said the man on the screen, who looked like a caricature of a breakfast-show host. He was wearing a smile as bright as his vivid tie and jacket. The camera pulled back to reveal the studio set plus his platinum-blonde colleague.
‘No, I really don’t want to think about it.’
‘You see?’
The picture flickered every two seconds and there was a smell of scorching. The television’s lead had been fractured and was reacting with the spilt water.
Marc decided it was safer to leave the box turned on. He looked at the desk, the only oasis of calm in the midst of the devastation. Vast and immovable, as if made for some statesman who proposed to sign epoch-making treaties on its polished mahogany top, it stood facing the windows overlooking the lake.
Marc stepped over some smashed glasses and kicked aside an overturned globe that had once functioned as a minibar. He wondered what to do next.
The house was too big to search for hidden dangers – it contained six bedrooms alone. If the intruder was still on the premises, he would be taking a risk. On the other hand, he had no further reason to stay. The chaos here was such that he couldn’t even find the remote control and turn off the drivel behind him, not to mention the answers he hoped would lighten the darkness of his psyche.
‘Yes, fine, but what if something goes wrong?’
‘Okay, viewers, what do you think? Call us on the hot line below.’
He was about to go when he caught sight of a drawer that had been pulled out and left lying on the floor upside down. At first sight it looked like all the rest. It wasn’t until he looked more closely that he spotted the dismaying difference.
‘Would you take part or not? Vote now!’
Marc knelt down and ran his fingers over the numerals scrawled in a childish hand on the bottom of the drawer:
23. 11.
His child’s estimated date of birth.