Eye Collector, The (20 page)

Then, having put on TomTom’s harness with a few practised movements, she took a fur-lined cord jacket from a hook, went to the door, and opened it. The fact that she kept her eyes shut
throughout these procedures made her look like a sleepwalker.

‘This is crazy,’ I said, more to myself than to her.

‘Maybe.’ She donned the jacket and turned up the collar. ‘But if we hang around here much longer the police will appear.’ She went out on to the landing and the glaring,
sensor-operated ceiling lights came on. ‘And then I won’t be able to take you to that busker you saw just now.’

(7 HOURS 31 MINUTES TO THE DEADLINE)

ALEXANDER ZORBACH

Some witless PR consultant must once have convinced Paris Hilton of the necessity always to stand sideways-on to the camera with her chin pointing bosomwards and a spuriously
coquettish grin on her face. The elderly barkeep, who had been warily eyeing us ever since we entered his deserted establishment, was standing behind the counter in a similar pose: leaning on his
right elbow with his chin on his chest and his head in semi-profile. His rimless glasses had slipped down his nose, accentuating his look of condescension.

‘Hi, Paris,’ I said. Even I realized that I’d tried to break the ice with better quips in my time. The guy didn’t bat an eyelid, and I doubted he’d ever heard of
the hotel heiress.

Alina, who evidently knew her way around the gloomy dump, felt for a stool and sat down. Still hoping to break the ice, I was about to boost the bar’s turnover by ordering some drinks when
he got in first.

‘Know why this world is going to the dogs?’

That intro’s no better than mine,
I thought, but I refrained from saying so. I knew from experience that you never interrupted a barman you wanted some information from, no matter
what bullshit he talked.

‘Fashion,’ he said with a portentous nod, his rheumy eyes straying to Alina’s cowpoke jeans. ‘Goddamned fashion, that’s what’s ruining us.’

There was a longish silence. ‘Uh-huh,’ I said dutifully, but it was as I’d feared: the man had far from finished his lecture.

‘What does it mean when things go out of fashion? Something that still works gets thrown away just because it’s got a little scratch on it.’

He slapped the counter with the flat of his hand.

‘This counter here is sixty years old. It’s stood up to a lot of things in its time. Glasses, bottles – it’s even fractured the odd skull.’ He chuckled
reminiscently. ‘Yes, people have done plenty on this counter. Danced, fought, slept, fucked...’

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Alina smile faintly.

‘So it isn’t the finest bar counter in Berlin, but it’s okay. It’s good for another sixty years, like the rest of this stuff.’

He made a sweeping gesture, familiar to me from those scenes in movies where a father tells his son ‘All this will be yours one day.’ In this case, ‘all’ comprised of
some grimy curtains, several ochre-coloured wooden chairs with worn upholstery, a decrepit pinball machine, and an assortment of booze that probably wouldn’t have fetched more than 2,000
euros.

‘Nothing in here is broken, so why should I replace it?’

Perhaps because you wouldn’t be your only customer at this hour?,
I thought, but I could tell where he was going.

‘“Lounge bar furniture” – that’s what some limp-wristed interior decorator advised me to invest in. “Club sofas” that customers can “chill”
on. That’s the “in” thing, apparently.’

I couldn’t remember when I’d last seen a look of such revulsion on anyone’s face.

‘What the hell’s so good about a bar where you trip over people’s legs?’

I shrugged, trying to sneak a glance at my watch. The bar was only two streets away from the gallery.

‘We use up our raw materials, suck the planet dry like leeches, chuck away things that are still in perfect working order. My dumb fuck of a nephew bought three new mobile phones last year
alone. And for what?’

‘Fashion,’ I said, thankful that he’d let me speak at last. I was now on the same wavelength. Genuinely so, as a matter of fact. I’d had my ear bent by dumber bar room
philosophers, so it was a pleasant change.

‘Okay, what are you having?’ he asked, finally treating us to a nicotine-stained smile.

‘Two G and Ts,’ I said. ‘And we’d like a word with this guy here.’

I held out my mobile. The barkeep stared at it in surprise, then adjusted his reading glasses.

‘This mobile’s over four years old,’ I lied, nipping any criticism in the bud.

‘And it still takes perfect pictures,’ he said with an approving nod.

I smiled. ‘Do you recognize the man?’

‘Linus? Sure.’

Linus?
I glanced at Alina, glad to have followed her suggestion. ‘Know where I can find him?’

The elderly barkeep’s smile widened. ‘In there.’

He jerked his head at a door in the far corner of the murky bar. A door with two crossed pool cues over it.

‘Okay if I have a word with him?’

‘If you must, but I’m afraid you’re too late.’

‘Too late?’ I looked at the barkeep enquiringly. He wasn’t smiling any more.

‘Go on in, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.’

(7 HOURS 26 MINUTES TO THE DEADLINE)
TOBY TRAUNSTEIN (AGED 9)

They had once bet which of them could stay underwater longest. It was just after the school trip to the public baths, when they should really have been taking a shower. Kevin
had bet his entire Panini album on the result.

Toby’s throat was parched. He swallowed hard, then greedily sucked in some air from the darkness around him. It was getting harder and harder to inhale. He was reminded of drinking a thick
milkshake through a straw. Breathing had become as difficult as that.

Kevin’s Panini album had been at stake!

His own was nowhere near complete.

So they’d made this bet.

Me, Jens and Kevin.

Although...

He really should have put it the other way round. Kevin, Jens, and me.

Or Jens first.

Only donkeys put themselves first,
he thought as he reinserted the coin in the head of the screw.

He’d been told that by Frau Quandt, their German teacher, who had read the story about the thirsty shipwrecked sailor with them. The guy who kept biting his tongue to produce spit.

Toby clamped his teeth together even harder.

Crap idea. It doesn’t work.

He coughed despite himself and the coin slipped out again.

Effing screw. Effing darkness. Effing Frau Quandt.

Still no spit. His tongue hurt more, but that was all. It was really sore and it felt like a strip of leather. And his head was buzzing the way it had when he stayed underwater too long, just to
win that stupid album.

Which he hadn’t won, any more than he’d managed to open this padlock.

Four turns, he’d counted. Maybe even five. Then the coin with which he’d been unscrewing the screw in the lock had slipped through his fingers and he’d fallen asleep while
looking for it. Now he didn’t know how long he’d slept for in this everlasting darkness. If his head wasn’t aching so much, he wouldn’t have known he’d woken up at
all.

He replaced the coin in the groove and managed another half-turn.

Shit, why am I sweating so much the coin keeps slipping through my fingers, whereas my mouth is as dry as...

Yes, as dry as what? He felt empty all of a sudden. His head was buzzing and he was too tired to think of a suitable word.

As the bottom of a bird cage,
he wanted to say, but it didn’t make sense.

Toby flinched when he heard a hysterical laugh. Then he realized that he was the one giggling.

He licked the sweat off his upper lip and knew it was a mistake. Like in the story of the shipwrecked sailor who drank sea water and only felt thirstier. He had wondered at the time why the man
on the raft hadn’t drunk his own blood.

But that was probably as dumb an idea as fiddling with this padlock.

He would never get out of here. Never be able to open the thing he was inside.

Whatever that is.

He would suffocate and sweat to death at the same time.

Hee-hee!

Toby giggled.
Sweat to death... Can you actually do that?

Click!

He froze.

Click!

A creaking sound, then a last, somewhat fainter click.

He propped himself on his elbows and braced his head against the yielding surface above him. He had once more lost the coin that had served him as a screwdriver, but that was immaterial now. He
couldn’t stop laughing.

His laughter grew louder by the second and culminated in a loud cry of triumph.

Done it!

First he’d heard it; now he could feel it. The padlock had sprung open and was hanging by its shackle alone. Although his fingers were trembling, they didn’t slip off the padlock
when he detached it. He felt for the eye through which the shackle had passed and found there were
two
of them.
Two
wafer-thin slabs of metal with holes in the ends.

Everything went very quickly after that.

Toby grasped that they were the pull tabs of a zip fastener that ran lengthwise above him. Because the zip had been hidden beneath a strip of material, he had mistaken the projection for an
unimportant seam. In reality, it was...

...the way out?

He held his breath and mobilized the last reserves of energy in his scrawny body.

Then, with sweaty fingers, he tried to pull the tabs apart.

No problem.

This is great,
he told himself, pulling the tabs ever further apart. The zip’s sliders glided along as smoothly as skates across an ice rink.

He was about to utter another cry of triumph when he felt the plastic film overhead. His spirits sank as quickly as they had revived.

Good news, bad news. Easy come, easy go.

He had opened the zip but not the rubbery sheath into which he had evidently been sealed. The thing that had almost exhausted his air supply.

He dug his forefinger into the film and felt it give way without tearing. It stretched but didn’t break, like chewing gum when you tried to scratch it off the sole of your shoe.

His eyes filled with tears. He sobbed and cried for his mother.

Not for Dad, the old fart. But Mum. I wish Mum was here.

With a strength born of despair he grabbed hold of the two flaps of material above him...

It’s a bag! I’m sealed up in a plastic bag.

...and yanked them in opposite directions.

Once, twice. The third time he uttered a yell that drowned the faint tearing sound.

Bloody hell, I’ve done it!

The film had parted. Quite suddenly. He couldn’t see or feel it, but he could smell it. The air smelt...

...different.

He thought he was yelling, but the throaty, whistling sounds he made were intakes of breath.

He propped himself on his elbows. His head was in the open now. He could sit up straight.

Avidly, he drew in great gulps of air. Although still thin, it was considerably richer in oxygen than the interior of his previous place of confinement.

Once his initial euphoria had subsided, however, he felt even more wretched than he had done minutes earlier.

Where am I now?

He crawled on all fours out of the container in which he’d been imprisoned.

He was out of his original prison.

And now?

He tried to stand up, but he was so weak he managed to stay on his feet for a second or two only. Then his knees buckled.

While falling, all he could tell about his new surroundings was that he still couldn’t see a thing.

Not a thing.

It was just as dark in there, wherever ‘there’ was, as it had been before.

Total darkness. There’s no difference.

Apart, perhaps, from the fact that his new prison had a bit more headroom, because he’d been able to stand erect.

And the walls aren’t soft any more,
he thought. Then his head hit the floor.

(7 HOURS 24 TO THE DEADLINE)

ALEXANDER ZORBACH

He’s dead.

That was my first thought. My second was why the barkeep, who had accompanied us into the windowless back room, should be smiling so benevolently when a body was decomposing on his pool
table.

The man we were looking for lay sprawled across the green baize with his head hanging limply over the rail nearest to us, between the end and centre. His eyes were wide open and a thread of
reddish spittle was oozing from his mouth. The spreading pool of blood beneath his chest did not look too fresh.

‘What smells so bad in here?’ Alina asked in disgust, one hand over her mouth and nose.

‘I, I don’t know exactly, but I think...’

‘He’s really had it, hasn’t he?’ the barkeep said with a contented laugh. I retreated a step and trod on his foot. While wondering if we’d left any fingerprints in
the bar and whether the police would be able to nail me for this murder as well, I activated my mobile.

‘Don’t touch anything,’ I told Alina as I keyed in the SIM code.

I was about to call the police when the phone nearly jumped out of my hand. The vibration alarm signalled several messages and a new call that was just coming in.

‘Hello? Alex?’

Damn it. Nicci!

This wasn’t, of course, an appropriate time for a conversation with my wife, but I’d inadvertently pressed the wrong key and now she was on the line.

‘At last. Thank goodness, I’ve been trying to reach you for hours.’

She sounded anxious. Filled with foreboding, I suddenly felt lousier than the barroom décor.

‘It’s Julian. He’s not too well.’

Oh no...

For a moment everything and everyone were secondary. Alina, TomTom, the barkeep – not even a corpse counts for anything when your own flesh and blood is in trouble. The signal was very
weak. I could only hear snatches of what Nicci was saying, so I left the back room without a word to the others.