‘Please accept my apologies—’
‘You're lying,’ Viktor said curtly, pushing past her. ‘I never use that door. It was locked.’
Admittedly, the door could just as well have been open, since he never checked, but he had no intention of letting her off the hook. Instead, he stationed himself beside his desk and looked her up and down. Something about his uninvited guest seemed vaguely familiar, although he was certain they had never met. Her blonde hair was arranged in a medium-length plait, and at five foot four, she was terribly thin; yet for all her skinniness she looked decidedly feminine, with wide hips and shapely breasts. If only she were a little taller she could almost have been a model. Viktor looked at her porcelain skin and shiny white teeth, half expecting her to say that she was shooting a commercial on the beach.
‘I'm not lying to you, Dr Larenz. I don't make a habit of lying and I'm not about to start now.’
Viktor ran his hand through his hair and tried to collect his thoughts. The situation was absurd. The woman had broken into his house, scared him to death and now she had the nerve to contradict him: it was like a bad dream.
‘I don't know who you are, but listen here: I'm ordering you to leave my house immediately. Don't even—’
He looked at the stranger intently. ‘Hang on a minute. Who are you?’
He was suddenly struck by how hard it was to guess her age. At first sight she seemed young, probably in her mid-twenties judging by her flawless skin. But her clothes belonged to a woman of more mature years.
She was dressed in a pink Chanel suit and a black knee-length cashmere coat with black kid gloves, a designer handbag and perfume of a kind that Isabell would wear. She spoke with a confidence and dignity that would seem precocious in anyone less than thirty.
Is she deaf? wondered Viktor. She seemed not to have heard his question and remained standing at the door, staring silently from a distance.
‘Well, no matter. Whoever you are, you shouldn't be in my house and you've outstayed your welcome. Be so kind as to use the front door and keep away from my property. I don't wish to be disturbed again.’
The woman took two quick paces towards him, causing him to back away.
‘Don't you want to know who I am, Dr Larenz? Surely you're not going to send me away without asking why I came.’
‘Indeed I am.’
‘I expect you're wondering what a woman like me is doing on a godforsaken island like this.’
‘No.’ Suddenly Viktor felt himself waver. He had almost forgotten what it was like to take an interest in someone else.
‘So you don't want to know how I tracked you down?’
‘No.’
‘I can tell you're interested. You may as well be honest with me.’
‘Honest with you? That's rich coming from someone who's broken into my house.’
‘If only you'd listen, you'd see that my condition is—’
‘Irrelevant,’ Larenz cut her off. ‘Completely irrelevant. And if you're aware of my situation, which I'm sure you are, you'll know it's unpardonably inconsiderate to impose on me like this.’
‘Your situation? I'm afraid I don't follow, Dr Larenz.’
‘What?’ For a moment Viktor wondered what was more astonishing: the fact that the stranger continued to contradict him, or the honesty in her voice when she made such preposterous claims. ‘Then I suppose you haven't seen a newspaper in four years.’
‘I'm afraid not,’ she said, not bothering to explain.
Viktor's growing bewilderment was matched by a desire to find out more. ‘Surely you know that my clinic is closed. I sold the place two years ago to—’
‘Professor van Druisen. Exactly. I was his patient and he referred me to you.’
‘He did what?’ Viktor could scarcely believe his ears. His unwanted guest had succeeded in gaining his full attention.
‘It wasn't an official referral, but the professor was adamant that you were the man for my case. Quite frankly, you're my first choice too.’
Viktor shook his head slowly. Why would van Druisen divulge his private address to a patient? Surely his old mentor knew better than that. Besides, it was obvious that Viktor was in no fit state to practise, and the beach house was hardly the most appropriate setting. He would call the professor later and settle the matter with him. For the time being, his priority was to get rid of the intruder and restore a sense of order.
‘I'm afraid you'll have to leave. You're wasting your time here.’
The woman made no effort to go.
Viktor's panic was slowly turning to exhaustion. With a dull sense of certainty he realized that his fears had been justified: he would not find the necessary distance to forge a new beginning. Spectres had followed him to the island; both those of the living and the dead.
‘I understand that you don't want to be disturbed. Patrick Halberstroem ferried me over this morning and wouldn't let me set foot on Parkum until he'd told me about you. He warned me not to be a nuisance.’
‘You mean Halberstaedt,’ he corrected her. ‘The mayor.’
‘The second most important person on the island – besides yourself. He didn't hesitate to inform me of that as well. I'll be sure to follow his advice and park my delectable bottom somewhere else, but first you're going to give me a chance to explain.’
‘Delectable bottom? Did he really say that?’
‘Yes. In any case, I don't intend to go anywhere until you've heard me out. I'm only asking for five minutes and then you can tell me to my face.’
‘Tell you what?’
‘Whether or not you're interested in my case.’
‘I don't have time for patients,’ he said weakly. ‘Please, just go.’
‘I will go, I promise, but I want you to hear my story. It'll only take five minutes, and you won't regret a single second.’
Viktor hesitated. His curiosity was getting the better of him and besides, he would never be able to focus on his work. He felt too weary to continue the debate.
‘Come on, Dr Larenz, I won't bite.’ She smiled at him.
The parquet floor groaned as she took another step towards him. Now he could smell her perfume. Opium.
‘Five minutes?’
‘I promise.’
He shrugged. Given the situation, five minutes were neither here nor there. If he threw her out now, she would probably wait outside the house, pacing up and down and distracting him from his thoughts.
‘All right then.’ He made a point of looking at his watch. ‘Five minutes and then we're done.’
4
Viktor went to the mantelpiece above the fireplace where an antique Meissen teapot was resting on a trivet. Realizing that the woman was watching him closely, he pulled himself together and made an effort to be polite.
‘Can I offer you some tea? I was about to make a pot.’
The woman smiled and shook her head. ‘Thank you, but no. My five minutes would be over before I could drink it.’
‘As you wish. But at least sit down and take off your coat.’
He picked up a stack of old newspapers from the leather armchair that went with the couch. Decades ago, his father had configured the three-piece suite so that everyone, when seated, had a view of the sea and the hearth. The sitting room was the perfect place to curl up with a book.
Viktor returned to his desk and made himself comfortable. His beautiful young guest sat down but seemed disinclined to remove her cashmere coat.
In the short silence that followed, a huge wave crashed against the beach. The water rushed back into the sea, foaming and seething.
Viktor glanced at his watch again.
‘Very well, Miss . . . I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name.’
‘Anna. My name is Anna Glass. I'm a novelist.’
‘A famous one?’
‘Not unless you're interested in children's books. Most of my readers are aged six to thirteen. Do you have children?’
‘Yes, I mean, no. I . . .’ Th
e words came forcefully and abruptly, driven by a sudden rush of pain. He realized that she was checking the mantelpiece for photos. Surely she must have seen the headlines? He changed the subject to avoid further questions.
‘Which part of Germany are you from? I can't detect an accent.’
‘Berlin. I was born there. But I sell more copies overseas. Japan was my best market, but it's all in the past.’
‘In the past?’
‘I haven't finished a book for years.’
The conversation had lapsed into the standard pattern of questions and answers characterizing the patient– therapist dynamic. Viktor was back to being the psychiatrist again.
‘When was your last book published?’
‘Five years ago. After that, I started another project – a children's book, of course. I thought it was going to be my best. It almost seemed to write itself, but I never got past the first couple of chapters.’
‘Why was that?’
‘Health problems. It happened very suddenly. I had to go to hospital.’
‘What was wrong with you?’
‘To be honest, I don't think anyone really knows. They seemed pretty baffled at the Park.’
‘The Park? Not the Park Clinic in Dahlem?’
Viktor was unable to hide his astonishment. The information put a whole new spin on the conversation. For one thing, it meant that Ms Glass was very wealthy. Only a bestselling author would be able to afford private treatment at the Park. It also meant that her problems were of a serious nature. Unlike the majority of famous clinics, the Park didn't cater to celebrities with drug and alcohol addictions. The Park only dealt with acute psychological disorders. In the glory days of his career, he had been asked to advise on some of the more problematic cases and he could testify to the professionalism of the place. With some of the country's leading experts at its disposal, the Park was at the forefront of therapeutic advances and had chalked up some notable successes. All the same, he had never seen a patient make such a complete recovery as the young woman sitting opposite him. She seemed perfectly lucid and alert.
‘How long were you there?’
‘Forty-seven months in total.’
Viktor was lost for words. Forty-seven months? She was either a consummate liar or seriously disturbed. She's probably both, he decided.
‘I was locked in a room and stuffed with pills for nearly four years. I barely knew who I was, let alone what was happening.’
‘And the diagnosis?’
‘Haven't you guessed by now, Dr Larenz? They said I was schizophrenic. It's why I came to you.’
Viktor leant back thoughtfully and considered her words. Schizophrenia was his specialism. Or at least it had been.
‘How did you come to be admitted?’
‘I called Professor Malzius.’
‘You called the director and requested to be admitted?’
‘It seemed like a good idea. Everyone speaks highly of the Park, and I didn't know where to turn. I would have come to you if I'd known.’
‘Who referred you to me?’
‘A consultant at the Park. I was living in such a fug that I had no idea what was best for me. He stopped my meds and told me to go to you.’
‘What were they giving you?’
‘Pretty much everything. Truxal and fluspirilene, but mainly flupentixol.’
Truxal, fluspirilene and flupentixol were standard antipsychotic drugs. The clinicians at the Park knew what they were doing.
‘And none of them helped?’
‘The symptoms got worse. Even after I stopped taking the medication, it took weeks to find my feet. In my opinion, that's proof enough that drugs aren't the solution to my particular condition.’
‘What's different about your condition?’
‘I'm a novelist.’
‘So you said.’
‘It's probably best if I give you an example.’ Her eyes, which until now had been fixed on him unwaveringly, shifted to an imaginary object in the distance. During his years in practice, Viktor had opted for face-to-face discussions instead of the traditional analyst's couch. Ms Glass's behaviour was nothing out of the ordinary. Patients tended to avoid his gaze whenever they were endeavouring to give an accurate account of an important and traumatic event. Or when they were lying.
‘The first thing I ever wrote was a short story for a competition. I was thirteen years old at the time. The competition was open to secondary school pupils throughout Berlin and the subject was “The Meaning of Life”. My story was about a group of young people who set up a scientific experiment. I submitted the manuscript, and that's when the problems started.’
‘What kind of problems?’
‘I was at a party at the Four Seasons hotel in Grunewald. My best friend had just turned fourteen and her parents had hired out the ballroom. I slipped out to the toilet and saw her in the lobby. She was waiting at reception.’
‘Your best friend?’
‘No, Julia.’
‘Julia who?’
‘Julia. A character in my story. I introduced her in the opening paragraph.’
‘Let's get this straight: the woman in the lobby resembled a character in your story?’
‘No.’ Ms Glass shook her head firmly. ‘She didn't look like Julia; she was Julia.’
‘What makes you think that?’
‘Because she repeated word-for-word the first line of the story.’
‘Pardon?’
She lowered her voice and looked Viktor in the eye. ‘Julia leant over the counter and said to the man at reception: “Listen honey, I'm going to do something special. How about you fix me up with a room?”’
Viktor met her searching gaze. ‘Didn't it occur to you that it might be a coincidence?’
‘Sure. I gave it an awful lot of thought. But it seemed too much of a coincidence, given what happened next.’
‘Namely?’
‘Julia did exactly as I described. She stuck a pistol in her mouth and blew her brains out.’
Viktor stared at her, aghast.
‘You're not . . .’
‘Serious? I'm afraid so. Julia was the beginning of a nightmare that has been haunting me for nearly twenty years. Some phases are more intense than others. But I'm a writer, Dr Larenz. It's my curse.’
Viktor knew exactly what was coming next; he could have predicted every single word.
‘My characters come alive. I only have to imagine a person, and I see them, hear them and sometimes even speak to them. I create them, and they walk into my life. Call it schizophrenia if you will, but that's the nature of my condition, my own particular mental tick.’
She leant towards him. ‘And there you have it. I decided to come to you.’
Viktor looked at her and refrained from saying anything. There were too many conflicting thoughts, too many emotions.
‘Well, Dr Larenz?’
‘Well, what?’
‘Are you interested in my case? I've come all this way to ask you to treat me. Say you'll agree.’
Viktor checked his watch. The five minutes were over.
5
Looking back, Viktor decided that the signs were there from the beginning. Had he listened more carefully, he might have realized that something was wrong. Very wrong. But no amount of insight could have averted the disaster. It would only have brought things to a head.
The fact was, Anna Glass had outmanoeuvred him. She had forced her way into his home and knocked him off guard. Her case was unusual; so unusual that for five carefree minutes he had forgotten about himself and his problems. He was glad of the respite, but his decision still stood: he had no desire to be her therapist. After a short but firm exchange, he convinced her to return to the mainland on the early morning ferry and make an appointment with Professor van Druisen.
‘I have my reasons,’ he said curtly when she demanded to know why. ‘For one thing, I haven't practised in over four years.’
‘I'm sure you'd still know how to treat me.
’
‘It's not a question of knowledge; I just . . .’
‘You don't want to treat me.’
Exactly, he thought. Something warned him against telling his visitor about Josy. If no one at the clinic had told her of the tragedy, he had no intention of volunteering the information himself.
‘In a case of your complexity, it would be irresponsible and unprofessional to offer analysis without researching your condition first. Especially without the facilities that a proper clinic would offer.’
‘Researching my condition? Dr Larenz, you're an expert! What's the first question you would have asked if I were in your practice in Berlin?’
Viktor smiled at her clumsy attempt to waylay him. ‘I would have asked you when the hallucinations first started, but I . . .’
‘The episode in the hotel wasn't the first time,’ she broke in quickly. ‘It started much earlier than that. But I never experienced anything so . . .’ She paused for a moment, considering her words. ‘So realistic. So convincing. My previous hallucinations were vaguer and less tangible, but Julia was real. I saw her, I heard the gun go off, and the next moment, her brains were all over the lobby. She was the first character from one of my stories to come alive. Of course, like most schizophrenics, I had a history of mental illness.’
‘Such as?’ Viktor decided to give the woman another five minutes before he escorted her to the door.
‘It's hard to know where to begin. I'd say the symptoms started when I was a child.’
He waited for her to continue and took a sip of his rapidly cooling Assam tea. It tasted bitter.
‘My father was a GI. He fought for the Allies and stayed in Berlin. He was a DJ on the American Forces Network for a while. Women loved him and he was a bit of a local hero. Anyway, he had a string of blonde dalliances in the back room of the military casino, and one of his many girlfriends fell pregnant. Her name was Laura, she was a Berliner, and the baby was me.’
‘I see. I notice you mentioned your father first?’
‘He died when I was eight. Professor Malzius says the accident was the first traumatic event of my childhood.’
‘What accident?’
‘My father died in a military hospital. It was a straightforward appendicectomy, but he developed a clot. He hadn't been given compression stockings. The thrombosis was fatal.’