Night Work

12

The alarm clock beeped from somewhere far away. It was an exasperating sound that gradually penetrated his consciousness. Jonas groped for the clock on either side of him. His fingers closed on thin air. He opened his eyes.

He was lying on the bare floor of the kitchen-cumliving-room.

He was cold. No bedclothes. A glance at the display on the microwave informed him that it was 3 a.m. He had set the alarm clock for that hour. Its monotonous beeping continued to fill the flat.

He went into the bedroom. His duvet was lying on the bed. Thrown back, as if he’d just gone to the bathroom. The camera was on its tripod, the floor strewn with dirty clothes. He brought his fist down on the alarm clock, silencing it at last.

He looked at his naked form in the bedroom mirror. For a moment he thought he’d shrunk.

He turned and leant against the wall, frowning up at the ceiling. All he could remember were the thoughts and mental images that had passed through his mind just before he fell asleep. He couldn’t account for his presence in the living room.

*

While riding out of Vienna on the rattling DS, heading west, he was reminded of the night he’d set off in the same direction eighteen years ago. It had been just as dark and cold. But pairs of headlights had regularly zoomed past him. Today, the roads were deserted. All he’d had with him then was a rucksack on his back, no pump-action shotgun. And his head had been protected by a crash helmet.

He zipped up his leather jacket. Why hadn’t he put on a scarf? He well remembered how wretchedly cold he’d been throughout that first trip, and he didn’t want to repeat everything to the last detail.

The moon was huge.

He’d never seen it so big. A perfect, luminous orb so close overhead it looked almost menacing. As if it had drawn closer to the earth.

He didn’t look up any more.

The moped purred along at a constant speed. His old machine had almost come to a stop on hills. This one managed every incline with no obvious loss of speed. Its former owner had tinkered with the engine so much that any police check would have resulted in an instant ban.

He leant into the bends, impressed by the rate at which the DS sped downhill. His eyes were watering so much he had to put on his old ski goggles.

Whenever he came to a long descent he disengaged the clutch and switched off the ignition. Coasted silently through the darkness. He removed the two woolly hats he was wearing against the cold. All he could hear was the whistle of the wind. The headlight functioned only when the engine was running, so the road ahead lay in darkness. He only abandoned these escapades when he almost missed a bend and narrowly avoided ending up on the verge.

By the time he got to St Pölten his fingers were so numb with cold it took him several attempts to remove the petrol cap. He wanted to relax in the warm over a cup of coffee. Instead, he drank a bottle of mineral water in the filling station shop and pocketed some chewing gum and a bar of chocolate. On the magazine rack he saw newspapers which dated from 3 July. The freezer cabinet was humming away, a defective neon tube flickering at the back of the shop. It was just as chilly inside.

I’ve ridden along this road before, he told himself when he was back on the moped. The person who rode along it was me.

He thought of the youth he’d been eighteen years ago. He didn’t recognise himself. Your cells renewed themselves completely every seven years, so it was said. That meant you became a new person every seven years, physiologically speaking. Although your mental development didn’t create you anew, it changed you to such an extent that you could happily call yourself another person after so many years.

In that case, what was an ‘I’? The ‘I’ he used to be was still himself.

Here he was again. On a moped like this one, on the same asphalt. With the same trees and houses all around, the same road signs and place names. His eyes had seen them all before. They were his eyes, even though they had renewed themselves twice in the meantime. That apple tree beside the road had stood there last time. He’d seen it. Now he was passing it again — zooming past it! He couldn’t see the tree in the darkness, but it was there, its image crystal-clear in his mind’s eye.

Many past experiences seemed so fresh and immediate he felt they couldn’t possibly have happened ten or fifteen years ago. It was as if time curved back on itself, so that events separated by years were suddenly mere days apart. As if time possessed a spatial constant capable of being seen and felt.

The sky was getting lighter.

Something had changed in the last few minutes, something to do with himself. His teeth were chattering, he noticed.

*

Just beyond Melk, where the countryside ahead opened out, he approached a building he felt he’d seen before. From a distance it looked in need of renovation. Some plasterwork was missing. That, too, seemed familiar. The place held some significance for him.

It was a substantial building with a spacious car park in front of it. The only car parked there was an eggshell-blue Mercedes dating from the 1970s.

Jonas tipped the moped on to its stand beside the car. He peered through a side window. Lying on the fur-upholstered passenger seat were a box of raspberry sweets and a can of beer. An air-freshener dangled from the rear-view mirror. The ashtray had been pulled out, but all it contained were coins.

He went looking for the entrance, waddling like a duck because his limbs were so stiff and painful. He came to a halt and massaged his thighs, which also helped to restore the circulation in his numb fingers. The fields beyond the building were swathed in early-morning mist. The tarpaulin covering a woodpile rustled in the wind.

Above the entrance was a sign that read: Snackbar Landler-Pröll. The name was unfamiliar to him.

He unslung the shotgun and took off his rucksack. There was something wrong here. He knew for sure that Steyr had been his first stop, and he felt just as certain that he’d never come this way since. So how did he know this establishment? Was he just imagining it?

He also found it puzzling that the entrance faced away from the road. There was no sign beside the road, either.

The door wasn’t locked. Lying in the passage beyond was an untidy jumble of slippers and mud-encrusted walking shoes. He could just make out a taproom through the frosted glass of the door on his left. Some stairs on the right looked as if they led to the proprietor’s private quarters.

‘Anyone there?’

The taproom door creaked open. He stamped his feet, cleared his throat. Paused on the threshold. Nothing to be heard but the occasional sound of wind nudging the windows.

He turned on the lights, naked bulbs suspended from the ceiling. They shed a harsh glare. He turned them off again. By now, the morning sun was bathing the room in an unreal halflight sufficient for him to find his way around.

The restaurant was neat and tidy. Bronze ashtrays on tables with gingham cloths, every table adorned with a vase of dried flowers, banquettes with decorative, embroidered cushions. A wall clock was showing the wrong time. The newspaper on top of the pile beside the espresso machine was dated 3 July.

He knew this place. Or at least, one that resembled it.

He abandoned his plan to reproduce the original trip and not to stop until he got to Steyr. He turned on the espresso machine. In the fridge he found some eggs and bacon. He heated a frying pan.

After washing his meal down with fruit juice and coffee, he tried the old radio above the serving counter. White noise. He turned it off again. He wiped off the writing on the bill of fare, took a piece of chalk and wrote: Jonas, 25 July.

Then he stomped up the wooden stairs. As expected, they led to a private apartment. He saw jackets hanging in a wardrobe, more shoes, empty wine bottles.

‘Hooo!’ he called harshly. ‘Hooo!’

A cramped kitchen with a clock ticking on the wall. The floor was sticky; his shoes made a sucking sound with every step.

He went into the next room. A bedroom. The single bed unmade, a pair of underpants lying on the floor.

Another room, evidently used as a storage room. Cluttered with stepladders, beer crates, paint pots, brushes, sacks of cement, a vacuum cleaner, old newspapers, toilet rolls, oily gloves, a mattress with a hole in it. It was only after a while that he noticed all the floors were uncarpeted. He was standing on bare concrete.

There was a coffee mug on the window sill, half full. He sniffed it. Water, or possibly some kind of hard liquor whose alcohol content had evaporated.

The living room, equally untidy. The air was damp, the temperature several degrees lower than in the other rooms. He looked around for something that might explain it. There were still-lifes and landscapes on the walls. Hanging above the TV were some antlers. All the furniture was red, he noticed. A red sofa, a cupboard lined with red velvet, a carmine red carpet. Even the old wooden table had red legs as well as a red cloth draped over it.

He climbed the stairs to the attic. They creaked. The door at the top, a thin sheet of hammer-finished metal, was unlocked.

Enveloped in cool, fresh air, he thought at first that a window must be open. Then he saw the broken panes.

In the middle of the room stood a kitchen chair with the back missing. Dangling from a beam above it was a noose.

*

Jonas got hold of a small tent and a sleeping mat in Attersee-Ort, then drove to the Mondsee. After straying down two farm tracks by mistake, he found the spot where he’d camped in the old days. Thirty metres from the shore of the lake and formerly covered with scrub, it now formed part of a public bathing place. Jonas dumped his kit and reconnoitred the area on the moped.

Modern times had arrived. The lido consisted of a tree-fringed expanse of grass the size of a football pitch. In addition to changing cubicles and toilets, it boasted open-air showers, a children’s playground, boats for hire and a refreshment kiosk. The terrace of an inn lay invitingly on the far side of the car park.

He started to put up the tent. The instructions were incomprehensible. Wearily, he staggered around the grass with diagrams and poles, but he got it up in the end and tossed the mat inside. He deposited the rest of his kit beside the entrance. Then he sank onto the grass.

He wasn’t wearing a watch. The sun was high, it had to be past midday. He peeled off his T-shirt and removed his shoes and socks. Gazed out across the lake.

It was nice here. Trees rustling in the breeze. Lush green grass. Shrubs dotted along the shore. The surface of the lake glittering in the sunlight. Distant mountains rising into a deep blue sky. For all that, he had to force himself to realise that he was enjoying a magnificent view. Perhaps he was short of sleep.

He recalled an idea he’d often toyed with in the old days, one to which he’d surrendered in a variety of forms, especially in idyllic spots like this. It was that some historical figure, Goethe for instance, could not see what Jonas himself was seeing. Because he no longer existed.

There had been days like this in times gone by. Goethe had roamed the fields, seen the sun, admired the mountains and bathed in the lake when there was no Jonas, yet to Goethe they had all been there in the present. Perhaps Goethe had thought of his successors. Perhaps he had pictured the changes to come. Goethe had experienced a day like this one, and Jonas hadn’t existed. The day had dawned nonetheless, Jonas or no Jonas. And now Jonas was experiencing this day, but without Goethe. Goethe had gone. Or rather, he wasn’t there any more, just as Jonas hadn’t been there in Goethe’s day. Jonas was now seeing what Goethe had seen, the scenery and the sun, and it made no difference to the lake or the air whether Goethe was there or not. The scenery was the same. The day was the same. And all would be the same in 100 years’ time. But without Jonas.

That was what had bothered him: the idea that there would be days without him, days perceived without him. Scenery and sunlight and ripples on the lake, but no Jonas. Someone else would see them and reflect that others had stood there in earlier times. That someone might even think of Jonas. Of his perceptions, just as Jonas had thought of Goethe. And then Jonas pictured the day, 100 years hence, that would go by without his perceiving it.

But now?

Would someone perceive this day in 100 years’ time? Would someone roam the countryside thinking of Goethe and Jonas? Or would the day be a day without observation, a day that simply existed? If so, would it still be a day? Was there anything more nonsensical than such a day? What would the Mona Lisa be on such a day?

All this had existed millions of years ago. It might have looked different. That mountain might have been a hill or even a hole in the ground and the lake a peak, but no matter. It had existed, and no one had seen it.

*

Jonas took a tube of sun cream from his rucksack and rubbed some in. Then he stretched out on a towel in front of the tent and shut his eyes. His eyelids twitched nervously.

Half asleep, he listened to the rustle of leaves mingling with the sibilant sound of canvas caressed by the wind and the murmur of wavelets breaking on the shore. From time to time he sat up with a start, imagining that he’d heard a birdcall. He peered in all directions, blinking in the sunlight, then lay down again on his stomach.

Later he thought he heard the voices of hikers enthusing about the view and calling to their children. Although he knew he was imagining it, he could see their rucksacks and checked shirts, the children’s lederhosen, the grey stockings and long-laced hiking boots.

He crawled out of the sunlight and into the tent.

It was late afternoon by the time he felt he’d caught up on his sleep. He had a snack at the pub. On the return trip he passed an Opel with Hungarian number plates. There were towels and inflatable mattresses lying on the rear seat. He topped up his sun cream back at the tent, then walked down to the boatman’s landing stage.

Various types of craft were moored there. He gave a pedalo a shove with his foot. It thudded into the boat alongside. The water gurgled beneath their keels. Each had a few inches of rainwater in the bottom with leaves and empty cigarette packets floating in it.

All he saw at first were pedalos. When he boarded the nearest one he lost his balance and nearly fell in. Standing up with one foot on the driver’s seat and the other on the passenger’s, he looked around for alternatives. That was how he spotted the electric motorboat. The key was hanging on a hook in the boatman’s hut.

Operating it was simple. He set a switch to ‘1’, turned the steering wheel in the direction he wanted to go, and the boat went humming out across the lake.

The boatman’s hut and the kiosk beside it became smaller and smaller. His tent on the grass was just a pale speck. The mountains on the other side of the lake drew nearer. Silently, the boat cut a foaming furrow in the water.

Roughly in the middle of the lake he switched off. He hoped the motor would start again. The shore might be too far away to swim to, and he didn’t want to have to try.

Jonas wondered how deep the lake was at this spot. He pictured the water draining away in an instant, as if by magic. A wonderful, fascinating new landscape would be revealed just before the motorboat plunged downwards, a landscape no human eyes had ever seen before.

In a compartment beside the driver’s seat, in addition to a first-aid kit, he found a dusty pair of women’s sunglasses. He wiped them and put them on. The sun glinted on the rippling surface of the water. The boat bobbed gently, then lay still. Far away, on the shore opposite his bathing place, he could make out some cars parked beneath a steep rock face. A cloud slid across the sun.

*

The cold woke him.

He sat up. He rubbed his arms and shoulders. He was wheezing, and his teeth were chattering.

Dawn was breaking. Naked except for his underpants, Jonas was sitting on the grass ten metres from the tent in which he’d gone to sleep the night before. The grass was wet with dew, the sky overcast. The trees were wreathed in mist.

The tent flap was open.

He circled the tent at a safe distance. The sides were fluttering in the breeze, the rear wall was sagging outwards. Although there didn’t appear to be anyone inside, he hesitated.

He was so cold he groaned out loud. He’d got undressed because he was too hot in the sleeping bag. That was still inside the tent. At least, he assumed it was. His clothes were lying beside him, as was the shotgun. He’d taken it into the tent with him last night, he felt sure.

He put on his T-shirt and trousers, socks and boots. He pulled on the jumper, pushing his head through the neck quickly.

He went over to the moped. Noticed at once that the fuel tap was open. That meant the machine wouldn’t start until he’d stamped on the kick-starter ten or fifteen times — if he was lucky. He’d sometimes forgotten to turn off the tap as a youngster.

He scanned the area for tracks. Nothing. No strange footprints or tyre marks, no trampled grass. He looked up at the sky. The weather had changed abruptly. The air was so damp it might have been late autumn. The mist hovering overhead seemed to be getting steadily thicker.

‘Hello?’

He called in the direction of the car park, then across the stretch of grass. He ran down to the water’s edge and shouted across the lake at the top of his voice.

‘Hooo!’

No echo. The mist swallowed every sound.

Jonas couldn’t make out the opposite shore. He kicked a pebble into the water. It sank with a dull splash. Irresolutely, he trudged along beneath the trees lining the shore. He looked over at the tent, at the boatman’s hut with the flag flying from its roof. Out across the lake. It started to drizzle. At first he thought it was mist droplets, but then he noticed that the rain was growing heavier. He glanced at the boatman’s hut again. The landing stage was scarcely visible. The mist was steadily blanketing everything.

Not taking his eyes off the tent for a second, he started to repack the rucksack. The underside was wet. He cursed aloud. His other jumper was right at the bottom, worse luck. The moisture had seeped through into it. He wondered where the moisture had come from. It couldn’t have come from the morning dew and the rain alone, and he hadn’t spilt anything.

He sniffed the sweater. It smelt of nothing in particular.

By the time he mounted the moped the mist had swallowed up the trees along the shore. The restaurant couldn’t be seen any more either. The dim shape in the car park was, he thought, the Opel from which he’d taken the inflatable mattress.

He pounded at the kick-starter until his forehead was streaming with cold sweat. The engine was flooded with petrol. He bounced so madly up and down that he toppled over sideways, taking the moped with him. He righted the machine and tried again. The rain grew heavier still. The tyres slipped on the sodden grass. Mist engulfed him. Rain was beating down on the tent a few metres away. He was no longer able to see what lay beyond it. He mopped his face.

While doggedly trying to kick-start the moped, with his heart beating ever more violently, he debated what to do. All that came to mind was the Opel, but he hadn’t noticed a key in the ignition. He considered pushing the moped up a slope, then coasting down and putting it in gear. There was a chance the engine would catch. But he couldn’t think of a suitable spot. Although the grassy expanse sloped down to the water’s edge, the gradient was far too slight.

The engine roared into life at last. Overcome with delight and gratitude, he hurriedly revved it in neutral. It sounded robust and reliable. Even so, he kept his hand on the throttle in case it died again. Buckling on his rucksack required some acrobatics. He slung the shotgun on, feeling a stab of pain as his shoulder took the full weight of it.

He peered through the rain in all directions, wondering if he’d left anything behind. All that remained was the tent with the sleeping bag inside, but even that was barely visible now.

He rode twenty metres in the direction of the changing cubicles, then turned. The tent was invisible now. He had to follow his tyre tracks.

Cautiously, he opened the throttle. The rear tyre spun, then gripped. He put on speed, saw the tent and headed for it.

The impact made surprisingly little noise. Tent pegs were wrenched out of the ground and flew through the air. One corner of the roof got tangled up in the footrest and was dragged along for several metres. It was all Jonas could do to keep the moped upright on the slippery grass. Once he had it under control, he braked to a halt.

He peered over his shoulder. The mist was so thick, he couldn’t see the tent at all. Even his tyre tracks were being blotted out by the rain, so swiftly that they seemed to dissolve before his very eyes. He wiped his face on the sleeve of his jacket, catching a whiff of wet leather as he did so.

He rode back. The tent wasn’t there. He cruised around but failed to find anything. His exact location escaped him. As he remembered it, the boatman’s hut must be behind him, the car park on his right and his vanished tent somewhere on the left. He made for the car park. To his surprise, the changing cubicles loomed up ahead. At least he now knew where he was. He found the car park without difficulty, but he couldn’t see the Opel. He followed the painted arrows on the asphalt that led to the main road.

Tucking his head in and arching his back, he rode away from the lido at a reassuringly steady speed. He had the feeling that a hand might grab him from behind at any moment. The sensation subsided as the mist thinned. Before long the trees beside the road became visible, and so, eventually, did the flower-bedecked boarding houses he passed.

He debated whether to raid one of them for a change of clothes, perhaps even for a raincoat. He was badly in need of a hot shower. Soon, if he wasn’t to catch cold. But something prompted him to keep going.

In Attersee-Ort he made his way into a modest little café in a side street. He didn’t park the moped outside but wheeled it into the café and propped it against a plush-covered banquette. If someone was really pursuing him, that would cover his tracks.

He made himself some tea and took the steaming cup over to the window. He concealed himself from view behind a curtain. Blowing on his cup, he stared out at the puddle that extended the full width of the street, its surface whipped into foam by the rain, which hadn’t eased. He could hardly feel his nose and ears. He was soaked to his underpants. The damp patch on the carpet beneath him gradually widened. He was shivering, but he didn’t stir from where he was.

He made himself another cup of tea and looked for something to eat in the cramped back room that seemed to have been used as a kitchen. He found some tins and heated up the contents of two of them in a not particularly clean saucepan, which he stood on a portable hotplate. He ate greedily. As soon as he’d finished he took up his place at the window again.

It was midday by the clock beside the glass cabinet when he roused himself. The door marked ‘Toilets’ led to a flight of stairs. The flat above was unlocked. He went in search of some suitable clothing, but the occupant had evidently been a single woman. He came downstairs empty-handed.

After leaving a message and the date on the menu board he emerged from the café, kick-started the moped and rode it out onto the main road. Rain spattered his face. He looked left, looked right. No movement. Just raindrops drilling the puddles.

In the local sports shop, more to protect himself from the rain than anything else, he got himself a crash helmet. He also put on an all-enveloping waterproof cape of transparent plastic, not that this repaired the damage already done. He was tempted to break into some other flat and get rid of his wet clothes, but his urge to leave the area was stronger.

Jonas had experienced lonely days like this before. Days of incessant rain and unseasonal cold. Mist hovered over the fields, roads and houses and nobody ventured out who didn’t have to. He had loved such days, when he lay in the warm in front of the TV, hating it when some cruel stroke of fate drove him out into the street. But in this part of the world, with its mountains, severe-looking conifers and deserted hotels and children’s playgrounds, he felt as if the landscape were trying to grab him. And if he didn’t hurry, he’d never escape.

He rode along the main road at top speed. He was so desperately cold, he tried to distract himself by reciting all the nursery rhymes he could remember. Before long, however, reciting them wasn’t enough and he started to sing and shout. He was shivering so much the words often stuck in his throat, and his voice was reduced to a croak. He bounced rhythmically up and down on the saddle. He felt feverish.

He reached Attnang-Puchheim in this fashion. Dashed into the first building he came to, a block of flats. All the doors were locked. He tried a detached house. No luck there either. Dripping wet, he threw his weight against the locked front door. It was solidly constructed and the lock was new.

Although the windows were quite high off the ground, he raised the shotgun and prepared to blow out a pane. Just then he noticed a small, windowless house across the street. Ignoring the puddles, he ran over to it. The door was round the back.

He tried the handle. It opened. He muttered a thank-you.

Without looking left or right, he hurried into the bathroom and turned on the hot tap. Then he peeled off his clothes. They were so sodden they landed on the tiled floor with a loud smack. He wrapped himself in a bath towel, hoping there were some men’s clothes in the house.

A gloomy house. There were windows only on the north side, overlooking a weed-infested garden. He turned on all the lights he passed, many of which didn’t work.

With the sound of running water coming from the bathroom, he turned the kitchen upside down in search of tea bags. He rummaged in all the cupboards and emptied out the drawers onto the floor, but all he found were useless things like cinnamon, vanilla essence, cocoa and ground almonds. The biggest shelf was crammed with cake tins. The occupants of the house seemed to have lived on a diet of cakes and pastries.

On a shelf that had escaped his notice at first he found a packet of soup cubes. Although he would have preferred tea, he put some water on to boil and crumbled five cubes into the saucepan.

A mountain of foam awaited him in the bathtub. He turned off the tap and put the saucepan of soup on a damp flannel on the edge of the bath. Then he threw off the towel and got in. The water was so hot he gritted his teeth.

He stared up at the ceiling.

Foam hissed and crackled all around him.

Bending his knees, he slid beneath the water, ran his fingers through his hair a few times and surfaced again. He opened his eyes at once and looked in all directions, shook the water out of his ears and listened. Nothing. He lay back.

He had loved having baths as a child. The Hollandstrasse flat had no bathtub, just a shower, so it was a treat he could only enjoy at Uncle Reinhard and Aunt Lena’s. He used to sit in their gleaming white tub, listening to the sound of his aunt clearing the table and sniffing the various soaps and bath cubes. He was familiar with them all. He even recognised the disintegrating labels on the shampoo bottles and regarded them as friends. But what delighted him most of all was the foam. The millions of tiny bubbles that seemed to twinkle in countless colours. That was the loveliest sight he’d ever seen. He still remembered paying little attention to the plastic ducks and boats and staring dreamily at the foam instead, filled with a mysterious wish: this, he thought, was how the Christkind ought to look when bringing the presents at Christmas.

*

The man who had lived here was short and stout.

Jonas surveyed his reflection in the mirror on the door of the wardrobe from which he’d taken the former occupant’s shirt and Sunday-best trousers. The trousers hung loose about his hips but ended a few inches above his ankles. He couldn’t find a belt anywhere, so he secured them around his waist with some black sticky tape. They felt scratchy, as did the shirt, and both garments smelt of old twigs.

In the dimly lit hallway he walked along the rows of pictures that he hadn’t spared a glance until now. None of them was bigger than an exercise book, and the smallest ones were the size of a postcard. Some words had been scrawled on the wallpaper beneath each of the inappropriately massive frames, evidently their respective titles. Like the pictures themselves, they were incomprehensible at first sight. A dark mass was entitled Liver. A double-barrelled shotgun of some indeterminate material was Lung. Two crossed sticks Autumn. Beneath the face of a man who looked familiar to Jonas were the words Floor Meat.

Among these works of art was a board with keys on hooks. One of them looked like an ignition key. It briefly occurred to Jonas that, if he wanted to preserve the spirit of this venture, he would have to ride back to Vienna on the DS. He tapped his forehead. The whole trip had been a diabolical idea, and it was time he acknowledged the fact.

Beneath an umbrella that gave off a scent of the forest, he walked along the line of cars parked outside in the street. After trying the key three times without success, he wondered if there wasn’t some quicker way. What sort of car would a man like the owner of this house have driven? Would he have owned a Volkswagen or a Fiat? Definitely not. Men who lived like this plump, dwarfish individual drove cars that were either small and compact or big and comfortable.

He looked all around. A Mercedes caught his eye, but it was too new a model. A 220 Diesel from the 1970s would have fitted the picture.

A dark, unobtrusive off-road vehicle. Not too big, with four-wheel drive.

He hurried across the street. The key fitted. The engine started immediately. He turned the heating up full and adjusted the control so it blew on his feet. He would have to drive barefoot. The slippers he’d put on were four sizes too small and his own shoes were full of water.

Leaving the engine running, he went back to fetch his things. He was interested to know whose guest he had been, so he looked for a nameplate on the door. When he couldn’t find one he rummaged in the waste-paper sack for invoices, receipts or letters. There were none. The house contained no clue to its owner’s identity.