Splinter

13

Marc had somehow managed to shake off the worried nurse by promising to keep an eye on his brother and clear up the mystery of the money. They’d agreed that she wouldn’t touch the cash until he got in touch with her again – though when he would summon up the energy to do that, he couldn’t imagine. For the moment, even climbing the stairs seemed an almost insurmountable obstacle.

Laboriously, he trudged upstairs, past the mounds of shoes outside each door, whose condition, size and smell were as informative about his fellow tenants as the stickers on their doors or the blare of the TV programmes that filled the passages. Although Marc had seldom come face to face with anyone in the short time he’d lived there, he had a very clear idea of the lives led by his new neighbours: the single mother who couldn’t afford shoe repairs, the alcoholic who preferred to spend the mornings watching wrestling rather than taking his empties to the bottle bank, or the joker whose doormat said ‘No Admittance’.

Marc reached the third floor at last and felt in his jeans for his keys, which he’d pocketed again while talking to Leana. In doing so he came across the application form for the memory experiment, which he’d naturally left unsigned at the end of his examinations.

I need a bit more time to consider, he’d lied to Bleibtreu when taking his leave. Theirs was an acquaintanceship that would never be renewed, that much was certain.

It was tempting, the thought of being able to forget the accident by swallowing a single pill, but not at the expense of his identity. He might just as well have contemplated living in a permanent, drug-induced stupor.

He fished out the bunch of keys, which the Bleibtreu Clinic’s security guard had returned, together with his small change and mobile phone, when he left the building. The display had registered no calls in his absence.

A moth had somehow got beneath the plastic cover over the light above his door and was fluttering around inside it. With a sigh, Marc inserted the key in the lock.

What on earth…

He looked up to check that he hadn’t made a mistake in his fatigue. No, there it was in black numerals on the green plaster: 317. His flat all right, but the key wouldn’t turn so much as a millimetre.

Damn it, that’s all I needed.

He withdrew the serrated security key from the lock and held it up to the light.

All in order. No nicks, no dents.

The moth emitted a menacing hum as he tried the key again. This time he jiggled it more violently. He even threw his weight against the door, but in vain. He was about to make a third attempt when he caught sight of the name on the card in the holder beside the bell.

He stopped short, dumbfounded.

Who the hell did this?

The bunch of keys in his hand started to tremble. He stared incredulously at the name. Someone had replaced his own card with another. Instead of Lucas, it read Senner. His dead wife’s maiden name.

It took only a moment for his shock and horror to be succeeded by boundless anger at this cruel joke. He reinserted the key in the lock, rattled the door, even kicked it. Then he froze.

Is someone in there?

Yes, beyond a doubt. Clamping his ear to the door, he heard them loud and clear: footsteps coming straight for him. Inside his flat.

Rage gave way to stark fear.

He shrank back as the door opened. Only a crack – only as far as the brass security chain permitted. And then, just as he saw the sad-eyed, pale-faced, dishevelled figure staring out at him from inside his own flat, time stood still.

Marc blinked, unable to get a word out. He shut his eyes and opened them again to make sure, but he didn’t need a second look. He had already recognized those arched eyebrows, that air of disbelief. It was as if he’d just told her how lovely she was.

She was standing there in front of him, close enough to touch.

Sandra.

The love of his life.

His heavily pregnant wife.