Deception

SEVENTEEN

A sickly dawn was lifting over the horizon as former railroad worker Wilhelm Dieter plodded slowly away from Schwedt, following his ritual daily walk, a determined but joyless defence against advancing old age. He absorbed little of the surrounding scenery to interest him; he’d been seeing it for too many years to count and doubted it would bring anything new to arouse his curiosity or brighten his day. It was why he alternated between this route and another going north, hopeful that maybe the change would keep his mind engaged along with his body, and throw up something distracting to look at once in a while, even if only some wildlife.

As he neared the strand of pine trees running along the border like a prickly rash, he noticed a group of carrion crows in the upper branches. Nothing unusual in crows, he reflected, the bloody things were everywhere. But clumped together like that? They looked like a bunch of priests on a day out, dark and faintly shabby, united in their bickering.

Tyre tracks in the mud — and recent, too. He’d have noticed them if they’d been here on his last walk two days ago. Nothing much came down here these days other than the occasional border patrol, although they were rare, too. There wasn’t the same need now, for patrols. Not since the Wall had come down.

He stopped and gave vent to a hacking cough, the result of too many cheap cigarettes, a lousy diet and damp living conditions, and tugged irritably at the woollen cap with the ear-flaps flying loose about his head. He shivered and thrust his hands deep into the pockets of his trench coat, feeling the cold easterly wind coming across the trees and surrounding grassland. Christ, if only we could have a bit more sunshine, he thought. It would liven up this bloody back-of-nowhere place for a start.

He continued walking and skirted a puddle, his ears prickling with tension. He stopped and studied the ground. Footprints everywhere, and more than one set, by the look of it. The tyre tracks ran on through the mud, leading towards the bend and the thicket where a few irresponsible louts from the town were forever dumping the rubbish they couldn’t be bothered to dispose of properly.

He decided to take a look. There was nowhere down here for a vehicle to go, not unless it was military or police. The track ended in a heavy gate, although if one were determined, it might be possible to blast through. But why bother? It only led to Poland for God’s sake; same scenery, different language.

He followed the track, his curiosity aroused. If there was anything salvageable, he could maybe get some cash for it in town. Anyway, what else did he have to occupy himself? Then he noticed a shallow furrow leading off to one side of the track, as if something heavy had been dragged through the grass towards the trees where the crows were gathered. A sack of something, perhaps? Probably somebody’s worthless shit, but worth a look at least. .

As he stepped off the track he noticed a coat spread over a tangle of blackthorn, the khaki colour darkened almost black in places by moisture. An old jacket, he decided, military surplus by the looks of it and widely available in places if you knew where to look. But why was it here? He felt the beginnings of a worm of excitement beating in his chest, and stepped forward to retrieve it.

Two hours later, less than two kilometres away, a former government office worker named Sylvia Heidl sat in a bare flat on the second floor of an ugly concrete block looking out over a featureless landscape. She was staring at a shiny black object on her kitchen table. It had a small green power light in one end which was flashing intermittently like a deficient ceiling bulb. It was a sign of energy and life, seemingly mocking the fact that her own vital signs were fast diminishing.

Outside, thin rain pattered against the windows, cold and relentless. In the quiet of the room, her breathing was quick, bird-like. It matched the throbbing of a pulse at her temple, visible under the translucent skin marked by the blemishes of old age. But old age wasn’t the problem. She looked down at her hands. They were like a collection of bony sticks; sticks which had lost their strength over the past few months and weeks along with the rest of her body, the disease which had overtaken her turning her into an old woman in no time at all.

A sound outside brought her head up, fear clutching at her breast. Then she relaxed, recognizing old Bendl’s asthmatic coughing. He shuffled down the foul-smelling stairs in the darkness each morning, on his way to the refinery where he worked as a clerk. Like the few who had jobs here, he started early and finished late, eager to work punishing hours for next to nothing, since earning nothing was simply to fade and die.

As the footsteps receded, she wondered what Ulf would say. Her brother was a doctor, although not the kind who could help her. An army medic for many years, he knew a lot about battle wounds but precious little about cancerous growths caused by the toxic air which attacked you as you breathed. But with his part-time job at the hospital, he knew people he could ask. . people with access to drugs which helped manage the pain she was suffering with increasing regularity.

She reached over and picked up the mobile phone, and brushed off a thin smear of mud, where old Wilhelm had handled it.

‘See if Ulf can sell these in town,’ he’d suggested tentatively, pushing the mobile and the slim red book into her hands. He had come straight round after his walk and woken her up, pounding on the door as if his life depended on it. ‘He might even be able to return them to the owner. . for a reward. We can share in whatever he gets.’ He’d gone on to explain where he’d found the jacket and, in the pocket, the mobile phone and the British passport. ‘I would do it myself, but I don’t know who to speak to. I don’t get into town much these days.’

What he meant, Sylvia thought cynically, was that Ulf had been in the East German army and Sylvia had been in the. . the job she’d been in. To Wilhelm, that meant they had contacts. . people who knew things. He was one of very few people who knew about Sylvia’s past, although he cared nothing about it. History is history, he often said pragmatically, best forgotten.

She took the passport from the pocket of her apron, listening for the sound of footsteps on the landing. Such caution was second nature to her; the grate of steps in the night, the rustle of thick serge cloth, the rumble of heavy boots and the clink of weapons moments before the door burst open and the future ceased to be. It had been a way of life for everyone here once. Now all she had left was the bite of ingrained paranoia.

The book was slim, dark-red, the colour of dried blood. The pages were rich and stiff, the paper of good quality. In the back was a photograph of a man with short hair and broad cheekbones. He wasn’t smiling, so she couldn’t tell what he would be like. A smile told you so much about a person. A doctor, she thought wistfully? A handsome man, anyway. Probably rich.

These things must be worth something, she hoped fervently. Down by the station, in the seedy backstreet cafes where she never went, there were people who would pay for such things; foreigners, mostly, from all quarters of the world. One had to be careful to get the money before handing over the goods, so it was no good her trying it. She’d be no match for a man in that situation. She would have to speak to Ulf.