The Strangler's Honeymoon (6 page)

Turn green now, you little bastard! she thought in irritation as she gazed at the lamp over the welfare officer’s door – and as if as a result of a telepathic miracle, it suddenly did just that.

‘Wow!’ Monica whispered to herself. She stood up and opened the door.

It went more easily than she had imagined.

Much more. The welfare officer listened to her account of the situation at school, and to her proposed solution. Nodded encouragingly and promised to make contact with Joannis that very afternoon and see if there might be a place for her there. If Monica called in at the same time tomorrow, she would find out what decision had been made.

It was almost as if she wanted to get rid of me, Monica thought as she walked back to her classroom; but she dismissed the thought.

And when she found herself sitting once more on the comfortable green sofa in the welfare officer’s room the next morning, she was informed that everything was done and dusted. There was no reason why Monica couldn’t start at the Joannis Grammar School this coming Friday: there was a biology class with only twenty-three pupils, and if she found that she would be happy in it, she could transfer straight away.

She was given the name of another welfare officer at the new school who would help her on Friday, then she could spend the weekend thinking things over, and make up her mind.

So easy, Monica thought. But perhaps these matters weren’t so difficult after all, provided you applied yourself to getting to grips with things.

And she hadn’t said a word about Benjamin Karren.

That same evening, Thursday 21 September, she noticed definite signs that her mother was on the way down again.

When she came home from school her mother was in bed, half asleep. Monica woke her up and explained that she was thinking about changing schools and would be travelling out to Löhr the next day: but her mother only nodded and muttered something about that no doubt being a good idea.

She had a sore throat, she claimed, and had skipped today’s course – but it was a crappy course anyway, so it didn’t really matter.

She hadn’t done any shopping, so if Monica wanted a meal that evening she would either have to go to the shops or see what was available in the freezer. She wasn’t hungry.

There was virtually no money in the housekeeping kitty, so Monica made an omelette and a sandwich. She had just finished eating and washing up when the phone rang. She expected her mother to answer, but gathered she had probably pulled the plug out in the bedroom. Monica hurried into the living room and took the call.

It was Benjamin.

He was in his car, outside their front door, talking on his mobile, he explained. He asked if she had anything against meeting him for a little chat. It might be a good idea to discuss a few matters, he suggested.

She hesitated for a few moments, made a quick calculation and concluded that it was now eleven days since he had slunk out of her bedroom.

Then she said yes.

Provided it didn’t take too long, she added. She had quite a few things to see to.

Benjamin accepted this, and five minutes later she was sitting in the passenger seat of his car. He was wearing the same shirt as he’d had on that first evening on the sofa, she noted.

6

‘I’ve been a bit busy,’ he said. ‘That’s why you haven’t heard from me. Please forgive me.’

She wondered how many times he had apologized or begged for forgiveness during the short time she had known him. It somehow seemed to be his built-in opening line every time he met anybody: apologize, draw a line under everything that had happened and start afresh. Raring to go and without prejudice.

But perhaps it wasn’t such a good strategy in the long run.

‘Me too,’ she said. ‘School is causing a lot of problems. I’m going to change, I think.’

‘Change what?’

‘Schools.’

‘I see.’

He didn’t sound especially interested. Perhaps he had a voice that always gave him away. She had been so taken by it to start with, but perhaps that had been mainly because that was what he wanted her to feel. Maybe he used his voice as a sort of tool.

He stroked her arm gently with the back of his hand before starting the car. She tried to assess her reaction to that gesture – to determine what she really felt about it – but she couldn’t. It was too superficial and insignificant.

‘Where would you like to go?’

She shrugged. Pointed out that he was the one who wanted to talk, not she. As far as she was concerned, it didn’t matter where they did it.

‘Have you eaten?’

She admitted that she had only had an omelette and a sandwich, as her mother was ill.

‘Ill?’ he said as he drove off in the direction of Zwille. ‘She hasn’t said anything about that to me.’

‘It started today. When did you last speak to her?’

‘Yesterday. We spoke on the phone yesterday.’

‘But you haven’t actually met her for quite a while?’

‘Not for a week. I’ve been a bit busy, as I said.’

There was only a slight hint of irritation in his voice, but she noticed it. A vague reminder that . . . well, what? she wondered. That not just one person was to blame if two people were not in touch with each other? Not even when one was thirty-nine and the other sixteen.

‘But you have time to meet me?’

He turned onto the Fourth of September Bridge, turned his head and looked at her for so long that she was about to tell him to keep his eyes on the road instead. Then he cleared his throat, wound down the side window and lit a cigarette. She had never seen him smoking before, and had never noticed that he smelled or tasted of tobacco.

‘Do you smoke?’

He laughed.

‘I’ve given it up. Although I buy the odd packet now and again when work gets a bit too stressful. Would you like one?’

He held out the packet. She shook her head.

‘The important thing is that I’m in control of it. I can stop whenever I want.’

‘Do it then,’ she said. ‘Stop now, smoke inside a car makes me feel sick.’

‘I’m sorry,’ he said again, throwing the cigarette out of the window. ‘I didn’t know that. Are you angry with me?’

‘Why do you ask that?’

‘Because I think you sound negative. Quite clearly annoyed. Can I invite you to dinner even so?’

She thought it was odd that he wanted to invite her to dinner if he thought she sounded negative and annoyed, and didn’t know what to say. She suddenly began to think she was being nasty to him: if she didn’t want to talk to him at all, she could have said so on the telephone instead. Declined to join him in the car, that would have been more honest. What she had done in fact was a half measure, as her mother usually called it. A typical, rotten half measure.

And in any case, surely he hadn’t done anything to deserve being treated in this childish way? Six of one and half a dozen of the other, after all.

Thus far, at least.

‘Okay,’ she said. ‘Let’s have a bite to eat somewhere.’

He nodded.

‘I don’t want to appear negative, it’s just that I think we have to put a stop to these goings-on that we’ve embarked upon,’ she began. ‘I felt that it was wrong even before the last time, and it would be catastrophic if my mum got to hear about it.’

‘We can talk it over,’ he said. ‘How about Czerpinski’s Mill?’

She’d heard about that restaurant by the Maar out at Bossingen, but she had never been there. As far as she knew – and as the name suggested – it was a restored and revamped mill. Rather an elegant venue, in fact. White tablecloths and all that. She glanced at the clothes she was wearing – a pair of dark corduroy trousers and a wine-red tunic – and decided they would pass muster. Let’s face it, teenagers were teenagers after all.

‘That’s fine by me,’ she said. ‘As long as we don’t stay there too long – I ought to be home before ten.’

‘No problem,’ he assured her.

For a brief moment, while they were waiting for the food to be served, a mad thought flashed through her mind.

She would stand up and leave their little table hidden away in a corner. Step out into the middle of the restaurant and hold forth for the other guests sitting at tables next to the walls in the low, oblong room with its big oak tables and exposed roof beams.

‘Perhaps you think that the pair of us sitting at this table are a father and his daughter,’ she would say. ‘You no doubt assume that a generous dad is inviting his daughter to have a top-class meal in order to celebrate a birthday, or something of that sort. But that’s not the way it is at all. This man is my lover, and he’s my mum’s lover as well – just so that you know. Thank you for listening, please carry on with your meal.’

Just to see how they reacted. Him and the other guests at this sophisticated restaurant – which didn’t in fact have any white tablecloths, but whose class was clear from other subtle details, such as the weight of the cutlery, the thick hammered paper on which the menu was printed, the stiff-starched linen table napkins and the even stiffer-starched waiters.

‘I often give him a blow job,’ she might add. ‘Suck him off. Just so that you know.’

‘What are you sitting there thinking about?’ he wondered.

She could feel that she was blushing, and tried to cool things down with a drop or two of Coca-Cola.

‘Here comes the food,’ she said.

‘Does it torment you?’ he asked. ‘This affair between you and me.’

She thought for a moment.

‘I wouldn’t say it torments me,’ she said. ‘But it will have to stop now. I thought you’d grasped that.’

She noticed that he stiffened. Sat motionless for a few seconds before calmly but firmly putting his knife and fork down.

‘I had the impression that there were two of us involved,’ he said. ‘I seem to recall that those were the words you used.’

She didn’t answer, nor did she look at him.

‘If I accept you as a real woman – and isn’t that what you wanted? – you must also act like a real woman. And accept that I am a man. Do you know what I mean?’

A real woman? she thought. No, I don’t know what you mean.

But she said nothing.

‘I know full well that it wasn’t very good for you last time,’ he went on. ‘But that happens. You shouldn’t give up just because it’s not the same intense experience every time. You have to learn to forget it and move on.’

‘I don’t think I really understand what you’re talking about,’ she said. ‘So you think we should carry on as before?’

He nodded.

‘Of course. Why not?’

‘Because I don’t want to, for instance.’

He smiled and put his hand on hers.

‘How can you know whether or not you want to continue if we don’t give it a try?’

She thought for a moment. Tried to find words that would somehow make holes in his stubborn self-assurance.

‘It wasn’t just that last time,’ she said. ‘It’s the whole situation, as it were. I can’t cope with it. I like you, but not as my lover. I simply can’t handle that . . . It was okay for a short time, but it can’t go on any longer. You are more than twice as old as me, and you’re in a relationship with my mother.’

He didn’t remove his hand. Sat there in silence for a few seconds and looked thoughtful. Contemplated different parts of her face. Mouth, hairline, eyes.

‘Are you quite sure about that?’

‘As sure as I can be.’

‘All right,’ he said, leaning back. ‘Maybe it’s best to do as you say. Shall we pay the bill and leave?’

She nodded, excused herself and went to the toilet.

It started raining as they were driving back towards the centre of Maardam. Instead of turning right at the Richter Stadium, he continued straight on past the Pixner Brewery and Keymer church.

‘How’s your mum?’ he asked.

‘She’s ill today, I told you that. Why are we going this way? Aren’t you going to drive me home?’

‘I don’t mean how your mother is feeling today: I mean in general.’

She shrugged.

‘So-so. You know what her problem is. Why are we going this way?’

‘I just thought I’d show you where I live. You don’t have anything against that, I hope?’

She glanced at her watch and hesitated. It was a quarter past nine. She sat in silence for a while, staring out into the rain.

‘I want to be home before ten.’

He patted her forearm.

‘Don’t worry. Couldn’t we talk a bit how you feel, at least? It’s not good to break off relationships willy nilly. Believe you me, you have to make sure the scars heal over as well.’

‘I think I’ve talked enough about that.’

She was feeling quite angry now. He put his hand back on the steering wheel.

‘Talked enough about it? What do you mean by that?’

‘What I say. I’ve discussed it long enough.’

‘I don’t understand. With whom have you discussed it?’

She could hear that tone in his voice again. The tone she had noticed when she first got into the car. Like a dash of spice that didn’t suit the taste. Something acrid, a little bitter. The word ‘dangerous’ came into her mind for the first time.

‘With a priest.’

‘A priest?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why have you spoken to a priest?’

‘Because I needed somebody to talk to about it, of course.’

‘I didn’t know you had a priest among your friends.’

‘I don’t. He was visiting the school and telling us what programmes the church was organizing for young people. I went to see him after that.’

‘Which church?’

She tried in haste to decide whether or not she wanted to reveal the name of the church, and made up her mind that she did. I might as well, she thought, so that he doesn’t get the impression that I’m making it all up. It struck her also that it was a sort of insurance – an independent person who knew all about it. Even if it was only a priest bound by vows of silence.

She didn’t have time to ask herself why on earth she should need that kind of insurance.

‘Which church?’ he asked again.

‘The one out at Leimaar. Pastor Gassel. I’ve met him twice – it’s part of their job description to listen to what people tell them, but not say anything about it to anybody else. A sort of confession, although they are not Catholics.’