Not Dead Enough

60

‘Sandy!’ he yelled. ‘SANDY!!!’

She was pulling away from him. Shit, she was running fast!

Wearing a plain white T-shirt, blue cycling shorts and trainers, clutching a small bag in her hand, the woman was racing along a path around the side of the lake. Grace followed her, dodging past a statue, and saw her weaving in between several children playing. She swerved around two Schnauzer dogs, each chasing the other. Back on to a path, past a smartly dressed woman on horseback and a whole crocodile of matronly women Nordic-walking in pairs.

Roy was now regretting his beer. Sweat was streaming down his face, stinging his eyes, semi-blinding him. Two roller-bladers were coming towards him. He swerved right. They swerved the same way. Left. They swerved the same way. He lunged right at the last minute, in desperation, his leg banging painfully into a small, free-standing bench, and fell flat on his face, the bench underneath him, digging into him.

‘T’schuldigen!’ One of the roller-bladers, a tall, teenage boy, was standing over him, looking concerned. The other knelt and held out a hand.

‘It’s OK,’ he gasped.

‘You are American?’

‘English.’

‘I am so sorry.’

‘I’m OK, fine, thanks. My fault. I—’ Shaken and feeling foolish, he took the boy’s hand and allowed himself to be hauled up. As soon as he was back on his feet, his eyes were hunting for Sandy.

‘You have cut your leg,’ the other said.

Grace barely gave it a glance. He saw there was a rip in his jeans on his left shin and blood was coming out, but he didn’t care. ‘Thank you – Danke,’ he said, looking ahead, to the left, to the right, in panic.

She had vanished.

The path ran straight on, for several hundred yards, through dense woodland and way in the distance opened on to a clearing. But there was also a right fork over a narrow, metal-railed bridge.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.

He balled his hands in frustration. Think!

Which way had she gone? Which possible way?

He turned back to the two roller-bladers. ‘Excuse me, which is the nearest way to a road over there?’

Pointing at the bridge, one said, ‘Yah, this is the shortest way to the road. It is the only road.’

He thanked them, stumbled on for some yards, thinking, then forked right, weaving through a group of cyclists coming towards him over the bridge, and began to run faster, ignoring the stinging pain in his leg. Sandy would head for an exit, he figured. Crowds. He broke into a limping sprint, keeping off the crowded path, running along the grass beside it, shooting the occasional glance down at the ground ahead for benches, darting dogs, sunbathers, but mostly keeping his eyes fixed on the distance, looking desperately for a flash of blonde hair.

It was her! OK, he’d only caught part of her profile, and had not had a good look at her face, but it had been enough. It was Sandy. It had to be! And why the hell else would she have run off, if it wasn’t her?

He raced on, desperation numbing the pain. He could not have come so far, so damn far, just to let her slip from his grasp like this.

Where are you?

A brilliant ray of sunlight shone straight in his eye, like a flashlight beam, for an instant. A reflection off a bus moving along the road, no more than a hundred yards away. Then he saw another glint. It wasn’t sunlight this time.

He dodged around a jolly-looking group having their picture taken, just as the camera flashed, ran over a verge of ragged grass and reached an empty road with the woodland of the garden on either side and a bus pulled over. There was no sign of Sandy.

Then he saw her again, as the bus moved on, a hundred yards ahead of him, still running!

‘SANNDDDDDYYYYYY!’ he hollered.

She stopped in her tracks for a moment and stared in his direction, as if wondering whom he was shouting at.

Leaving her in no doubt, waving his arm frantically, he sprinted towards her, shouting, ‘Sandy! Sandy! Sandy!’

But she was already running again and vanished around a bend. Two mounted policemen appeared, coming towards him, and for a moment he wondered whether to ask them for help. Instead he sprinted on past them, conscious of their wary stares.

Then in the distance he could see the yellow wall of a building. She was running past a red stop light and a skip, over a bridge, past the building and a cluster of buses.

Then she stopped by a parked silver BMW and appeared to be searching in her bag for something – the key, he presumed.

And suddenly he was alongside her, gasping for air. ‘Sandy!’ he said elatedly.

She turned her head, panting hard, and said something to him in German.

And then, staring at her properly for the first time, he realized it wasn’t Sandy.

It wasn’t her at all.

His heart plunged like an elevator with a snapped cable. She had the same profile, uncannily the same, but her face was wider, flatter, much plainer. He couldn’t see her eyes, because they were behind dark shades, but he didn’t need to. It wasn’t Sandy’s mouth; this was a small, thin mouth. It wasn’t Sandy’s fine, silky skin; this face was pockmarked from childhood acne.

‘I’m – I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.’

‘You are English?’ she said with a pleasant smile. ‘Can I help you?’

She had her key out now, hit the fob and the doors unlocked. She opened the driver’s door and rummaged around for something inside. He heard the jangle of coins.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I – I made a mistake. I mistook you – I thought you were someone I knew.’

‘I forgot the time!’ She patted the side of her head, indicating stupidity. ‘The police give you tickets very quickly here. Two hours only on the ticket!’

She pulled a handful of euros out of the door pocket.

‘Can I ask you a question, please? Ah – were you here – in the Englischer Garten – on Thursday? At about this time?’

She shrugged. ‘I think so. In this weather, I come often.’ She thought for a moment. ‘Last Thursday?’ she said.

‘Yes.’

She nodded. ‘Definitely. For sure.’

Grace thanked her and turned away. His clothes were clinging to his skin with perspiration. A ribbon of blood trailed across his right trainer. A short distance away he saw Marcel Kullen walking towards him. He felt totally crushed. He pulled out his mobile phone and raised it to his ear, as the woman walked across to the ticket-vending machine. But he wasn’t making a phone call. He was taking a photograph.