Splinter

27

The man looked less like a hunter than a hunted beast. His eyes swivelled to and fro as he spoke, incapable of focusing on any particular feature of the office. Not that it contained much that was worth a second glance. Neither the walls plastered with ‘Wanted’ notices and street maps, nor the battered regulation filing cabinets, nor the yellowish washbasin on the right of the door, nor the anonymous utensils on the cramped little desk – one of three – at which they sat facing one another. Marc had often wondered if members of the municipal administration were selected for their colour-blindness – those of them, at least, who were privileged to choose the interior decoration of public buildings. The police station was done up in shades of brown and ochre never to be found in nature. It looked as unhealthy as the policemen working there, whose pallid complexions had changed as little in recent years as the surrounding décor.

Marc knew Wedding police station of old. As boys, he and Benny had tried to steer clear of the place, not always with success. He now discovered that it made a considerable difference, when you were waiting to make a statement in these airless rooms, whether you were a perpetrator or a victim. He had never felt as bad in the old days, when they were called to account because one of their gigs had ended in a punch-up. He had always got off with a caution, fortunately, a criminal record would have put paid to his law studies.

‘Let’s get one thing straight,’ said the policeman who had just entered the office trailing a cloud of cigarette smoke and introduced himself as Detective Inspector Stoya. ‘We’ve had enough nutters waltzing in here and wasting our time today, so kindly get to the point. What do you know about this kidnapping?’

Bewildered, Marc watched him vandalize a half-empty mug of coffee with several artificial sweeteners from a dispenser.

‘Kidnapping?’ he said. That made Stoya look him in the face for the first time. For one brief moment he felt he was staring into a mirror that reflected negative features only. Tired eyes, sunken cheeks, pouches that looked heavy enough to drag the whole head earthwards. Marc knew just how tense the policeman’s neck muscles would feel if he touched them. His own ached whenever he moved.

Stoya slid a newspaper from under his mug and pointed to the front page.

Over the photographs of two children, yesterday’s headline screamed -

‘THE EYE COLLECTOR STRIKES AGAIN!’

Marc recalled having heard something about a serial kidnapper on the radio – a psycho who abducted children aged between seven and twelve and gave the parents seventy-two hours to find their hiding place before he killed them and cut out their left eyes. No child had yet been rescued alive from the clutches of the ‘Eye Collector’, and his latest ultimatum was due to run out in a few hours’ time.

‘No, I’m not here about that,’ said Marc. He now realized why the 35th Precinct was so busy at this time of night. The corridors were teeming with uniformed officers and plainclothes men, numerous telephones were ringing simultaneously, and the waiting room was full to overflowing. If he and Stoya had this three-desk office to themselves, it was presumably because the other two occupants were out on the manhunt.

Stoya sighed and glanced at the clock above the door. ‘Sorry, I was misinformed. So what do you want?’

I want to report a crime. To be more precise, a conspiracy.

Marc had spent the long wait trying to think of some suitable preamble, but without success. He had eventually decided to answer any questions off the cuff – a mistake, as it turned out, because what he had to say sounded ludicrous even to his own ears. He could almost predict how the conversation would go.

‘You can’t get into your flat?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Why come to the police? Why not call a locksmith?’

‘Because someone’s holding the door shut from the inside.’

‘Who?’

‘My late wife…’

Stoya eyed the clock impatiently. He looked as if he might jump to his feet at any moment, so Marc broke the silence. ‘I want to report a crime.’

He went on to summarize the inexplicable events that had overtaken him, speaking faster and faster the more often the policeman’s facial expressions changed. They ranged from impatience and boredom to astonished incredulity and undisguised scepticism. There were even times when Marc wasn’t sure Stoya was listening to him at all. He had pulled his computer keyboard towards him and spent the last couple of minutes staring at the antiquated box monitor with one hand on his mouse.

‘Okay…’ he drawled when Marc was finished at last. ‘In that case, I’ve only one question for you.’

‘Which is?’

‘Got any left?’

‘Any what?’

‘Any of the stuff you’ve been taking.’

Stoya rose and signalled to a young uniformed cop who had just come in.

‘Look, I know it sounds absurd…’ Marc began, but the inspector raised his hand with an indulgent smile.

‘No, no, don’t worry, I hear this sort of thing every day.’

Marc got up too. ‘Please, can’t you send an officer to my place to check it out?’

The young cop was now standing just behind him, awaiting instructions. He smelt of warm sleep and cheap cologne. He’d probably been taking a nap in a broom cupboard and freshened himself up with aftershave.

‘I don’t have time for this nonsense, not now of all times.’

‘Okay, then at least check my identity. Then I’ll know if I’m really insane or the victim of a criminal offence.’

Stoya picked up his mug and walked to the door. ‘I’ve already done that.’

‘Done what?’

The young cop tried, overzealously, to hustle him towards the door. Marc could feel his warm breath on the back of his neck.

‘I checked your statement. My colleague here will attend to you from now on.’

Stoya opened the door to the passage. A babble of voices drifted into the room. ‘I have to save the lives of two children. Afraid I don’t have time for shoplifters.’

‘Shoplifters?’ Marc repeated in bewilderment. He shook off the young cop’s hand.

‘Chemists don’t like it when people fail to pay for their medication.’

‘No, that was a misunderstanding. I made a point of leaving the man my credit card.’

‘Which was invalid.’

‘But I’m not here about that, damn it!’

‘All right, I’ll give it to you straight: I know what medication you’re taking. The complainant says you asked for a psychiatric drug of the strongest possible kind.’

‘What?’ Marc’s hand went to his neck. ‘No, no, no. I needed something for a splinter in my neck. I’m not crazy.’

‘The splinter you acquired in a car crash?’

‘Yes.’

‘A car crash that killed your wife?’

Marc groaned aloud.

‘Who now refuses to let you into your flat?’

Marc fell silent. They’d come to the end of the conversation he’d previously conducted with himself.

‘And you’re telling me you aren’t crazy?’ Stoya nodded to his colleague and strode off without a backward glance.

‘Okay, let’s go.’

This time Marc didn’t have the energy to shake off the young cop’s hand as he was steered along the passage – away from the senior officers’ ground-floor offices and upstairs to the rooms he had so often seen from the inside as a youth.

He bowed his head, wondering where else the billows of insanity would wash him up tonight, now that they had already swept away his car, his pills, his personal contacts and his money. He had even forfeited the trust of the police. He longed for a trapdoor to open and swallow him up – send him plummeting down, away from this unreal reality and into a black hole of oblivion.

But that happened only in dreams. In cruel actuality there were no secret passages to a better world, no heavensent rope ladders to a tree-house in which you could hide from the devil and come to rest. Miracles didn’t happen in the harsh, neon-lit reality of a big-city police station.

Or did they?

Just as he had a few hours ago, when staring into the crater of the building site, Marc couldn’t believe his eyes as he was shepherded through the reception area.

How was it possible?

He had told no one where he wanted to go, yet barring his path was the one person he’d longed to have at his side here and now, in this hopeless situation.