Was he dead?
Had Benjamin Kerran really died up there in the bathroom? Had she finished him off by stabbing him with a pair of scissors, or had she only wounded him?
Oh hell, she thought, emptying her cup. Bloody hell, I simply don’t know. I’m such a damned useless idiot that I don’t even know if I’ve killed him or not! Idiot, Monica Kammerle, you are just a poor little idiot, and you’ll soon be as mad as your mother and the pair of you will end up in the loony bin. It’s only a matter of time before the pair of you are lying there under yellow blankets, keeping each other company amid the faint smell of fading carnations and badly washed bodies. .
Almost as a confirmation of this last thought, two men at another table burst out laughing.
A crude, wheezing belly laugh as if from an old horror film, accompanied by curses, a thumping of fists on the table and stamping on the floor. She leaned forward and looked at them through an apology of a trellis which should have been covered by some climbing plant or other, but wasn’t and never would be. Saw how one of the men dug into his right ear with the handle of a teaspoon while the other was convulsed by a coughing attack, which brought the fun and games to a full stop.
She checked her watch and stood up. Five minutes past one. Time to go home, no doubt about that. This wasn’t a place for young girls to while away the night at, Duisart’s, definitely not.
Time to find out how things were in the real world.
To snuggle down into bed in Moerckstraat and make plans, in fact.
I’m a pain, she thought when she was out in the alley again. My thoughts keep nagging away at me. I’m drunk. Some people go downhill rapidly. I’m a drunken murderess, even though I’m only sixteen.
And I feel sick — holy shit!
The night air and walking through the cold rain sobered her up, and by the time she returned to Moerckstraat, fear had once again begun to swirl around inside her.
Her mother was sitting in front of the television, where a different blue-coloured crime series was now trundling along with the sound on low. It was half past one. There was a smell of something unpleasant oozing out from the kitchen, but no doubt it was just the slop bucket.
‘What are you watching?’ she asked.
‘I don’t know,’ said her mother.
‘Shouldn’t you go to bed now?’
‘I’ve only just woken up,’ said her mother.
‘I see. Well, I’m going to bed now.’
‘Mmm.’
‘Good night.’
‘Mmm.’
She went to the bathroom. Brushed her teeth. She smelled of sweat, but who the hell cared? Looked for a moment or two at the bottles of tablets, but desisted from checking.
What was the point?
When I’m dead I’ll see Dad again, she thought.
9
After darkness cometh light, after strength cometh weakness.
She had read this somewhere or other, so perhaps it wasn’t surprising that a few days passed after her risky outing to the cafe on Sunday before she plucked up courage to go out again.
Once, just once, her mother went to the corner shop and bought in a few necessities, but Monica stayed put. She in her room, her mother in hers, full stop. Time passed, and yet again seemed not to affect them. When her mother summoned up all the pathetic sense of duty she was capable of and asked why her daughter wasn’t at school, Monica said she had the flu, and that was accepted as a sufficient explanation.
She read, then hid what she had been reading. Wrote, and threw away what she had written. It was not until Wednesday evening that she could summon up sufficient strength and energy to dare to venture as far as the library in Ruidsenallé.
She had a plan. It was simple, and she had been considering it ever since it came to her during one of her sleepless nights.
If Benjamin Kerran had been found dead in his bathroom nearly a week ago — she had concluded — there must be something about it in the newspapers. It would be implausible for there not to be.
And so all she needed to do was to check. She asked for copies of Neuwe Blatt and Telegraaf for the last six days, sat down at an empty table and started leafing through them. Calmly and methodically, leaving nothing to chance. Page by page, newspaper by newspaper. No hurry. It took twenty minutes.
Not a word.
Not a single word about a man stabbed with a pair of scissors in a flat near the university. No death notice. Nothing.
Ergo? she asked herself as she gazed out of the aquarium-like windows at the square, and listened to the blood pounding in her temples. What does this mean? What has actually happened?
The answer was obvious. Or rather, the alternatives were obvious.
Either he had survived. The scissors had not damaged any vital organ. He had simply fainted as a result of the pain, come round again and pulled out the scissors. Driven to the hospital and had his wound dressed. Or managed it himself.
Or — the other alternative — he was simply lying dead on his bathroom floor, just as she had left him, waiting to be discovered.
It would soon be a whole week. Was that plausible? Was it possible? How soon does a body start to smell? When would the neighbours begin to suspect foul play? His colleagues at work?
She slid the pile of newspapers to one side and allowed her thoughts to wander between the two possibilities. Trying to weigh them up and working out which one was the more likely.
If he had survived, if he was still alive, she thought — trying to ignore the cold and remarkably slow shudder working its way up along her spine — shouldn’t he have been in touch? Shouldn’t she have known by now?
She took a few deep breaths and tried to think clearly. Surely it was extremely odd that he hadn’t made some sort of counter-move? He couldn’t possibly have failed to see that she had tried to kill him. Even if he hadn’t registered what happened during the critical moments, the scissors must surely have indicated what had happened. They couldn’t have landed there of their own accord. She — that crafty sixteen-year-old Monica Kammerle — had tried to finish him off, there was no mistaking that.
Attempted murder. She wondered how long a sentence such a charge would involve.
A few years? That was for sure. But of course, not as many as it would have been if she had succeeded in her attempt.
Self-defence, of course. And perhaps it was classified as manslaughter. Attempted manslaughter? That didn’t sound so bad. And surely one had a right to defend oneself against unwanted sexual advances? Surely she would be able to plead attempted rape and self-defence?
She gave a start when she realized that she was beginning to lose sight of the basic facts. She had had sex with him several times of her own free will, and there was not really much point in sitting there speculating about the possible consequences of that.
Besides, he’s dead! she suddenly decided, gritting her teeth. He can’t possibly be still alive without getting in touch somehow or other! Impossible. He’s lying up there in his bathroom, rotting away: old buildings made of stone are solidly constructed, and it can take months before the stench starts to become noticeable. Weeks in any case. Art Nouveau, wasn’t that what he’d said?
But then, it wasn’t the stench from the corpse that was the crucial point, she realized. His employers and workmates must start wondering what was going on — in local government, she seemed to recall he had said — and sooner or later they would begin to suspect foul play. In fact, they had probably already started to do so: colleagues and close friends. . relatives as well, assuming he had any he was in regular touch with, she didn’t know. . They must surely catch on to the fact that something odd must have happened — not everybody was as isolated as a certain mother and a certain daughter in a poky little flat in Moerckstraat.