17

He woke up at twenty past five.

Stayed in bed for a while and tried to go back to sleep, but that was impossible. Old images and memories of every possible occasion flooded into his consciousness, and after half an hour he got up. Put on a jumper and trousers over his pajamas and went to the kitchen. Looked out the window, saw that the newsstand in the square below hadn’t opened yet, and sat down at the table to wait.

When the shutters were removed, he was standing there, ready. There was no risk. The woman who ran the stand recognized him, but it wasn’t the first time he’d been there so early.

With Neuwe Blatt under his arm, he rushed up the stairs in a series of long leaps. Locked the door behind him and spread the newspaper out on the kitchen table. Started looking.

The report covered a whole page, and he read it twice. Folded the paper up, rested his head on his hands, and pondered.

Loss of memory?

Of all the possibilities he’d considered over the last few weeks, that was something that had never occurred to him.

Loss of memory?

After a while, he concluded that this was the only answer.

The only one, and the right one. Mitter had forgotten him.

He’d been so drunk that he quite simply didn’t remember.

There was a twitching at the corners of his mouth, he could feel it. He felt drowsy now, after getting up so early. But surely this was an omen. Another sign that he was on the right path. He was free now, and strong. He only needed to look ahead. No need to fear anything. A lion.

Something was nagging deep down in his stomach.

Fear?

Was it possible that Mitter might remember?

He belched. A sour taste filled his mouth.

He took two tablets to calm down his stomach. Washed them down with soda water. Went back to bed.

The thought was already in his mind. He didn’t bother to examine it more closely. It wasn’t necessary yet. There was no hurry. He would surely be well advised to wait and see how things developed. The itch was there again, but he suppressed it. He had the strength and the determination, no doubt about that; but it was too soon. For the moment he could devote himself to other things. Other itches.

Liz. He stuck his hand down behind the waistband of his trousers. This is what he had to look forward to. The sick goings-on of the past were behind him now. On Wednesday, it would be Liz. His woman.

She was going to seduce him, he’d seen it in her eyes. And he would let her have her way. He’d let her do whatever she wanted until the very last moment, then he would force his way inside her and make her squeal in ecstasy. From behind and from in front and from the side.

Eva was gone. Now it was Liz. On Wednesday.

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