Survivors of a plane crash, terrorist bomb, road accident or some other life-threatening occurrence are often unanimous in stating that they perceived the instant of the disaster in slow motion. It’s as if the explosion, fireball or collision has torn a hole in time or even brought it to a stop. Marc instantly grasped the reason for this perceptual phenomenon: the moment a lethal threat presents itself, the human brain is incapable of absorbing multiple impressions simultaneously, still less of sorting out the sequence of events.
Marc saw the brightly lit ambulance, its dirty headlights, the silently flashing lights on its roof, and the rear doors, open to reveal the loading space within. He registered the bearded male nurse in the white smock, who was holding something in one hand as he strove to drag Emma out of her Beetle with the other. He even noted insignificant details such as the blood-red fluorescent stripes on the vehicle’s sides and the rosary-like chain suspended from its rear-view mirror which seemed to dangle in time to the flashing lights. He also heard the bubbling of its diesel engine, which mingled with that of the Beetle, and wondered why Emma didn’t utter a sound until she started to scream for help. It was highly probable that he took in all these things at once, or separated only by fractions of a second, after the bearded nurse had slapped Emma’s face and sent her glasses spinning across the asphalt.
At this point another figure appeared on the scene. A woman, or so Marc thought at first, because she was rather lightly built and had a ponytail. Then he recognized her as a young man.
‘Hey!’ Marc yelled, squeezing out of his car backwards. ‘Let go of her!’
The rubber soles of his trainers slipped on a little mound of wet leaves as he tried to go to Emma’s aid. In the meantime, the bearded nurse had managed to haul Emma’s bulky body out of the driver’s seat with such force that she reeled around beside the car, still half dazed by his original blow. In a trice, Beardie grabbed her by the arm and pinned her, bosom first, against the ambulance.
‘Over here!’ he shouted to the man with the ponytail, who seemed undecided as to whom to tackle first. Emma’s captor bellowed his order twice as loud and jerked his head at the ground. Whatever he had dropped during the struggle, he evidently needed it in order to subdue Emma, who had recovered her wits and was struggling fiercely. It was all he could do to restrain her, despite his muscular build.
‘What do you want with her?’ Marc yelled. He noticed out of the corner of his eye that a light on the third floor of his block of flats had just come on. The flashing lights and the sound of engines and shouting would sooner or later prompt one of the residents to call the police. Later rather than sooner, though, because nocturnal brawls weren’t uncommon in Schöneberg, and most of its inhabitants relied on their neighbours’ ability to settle their differences without the help of the authorities. Besides, the ambulance would make onlookers feel that everything was under control.
‘No, please don’t!’ gasped Emma. Ponytail had just picked up a longish, cigar-shaped object and handed it to his confederate.
‘Now for you,’ he said. Having satisfied himself that Beardie had regained control of the situation by twisting Emma’s wrist behind her back until it was on a level with her shoulderblades – her cries of pain merged into a long-drawn-out howl – he took a step towards Marc.
Marc’s immediate inclination was to hurl himself at Beardie, who was now struggling to apply the cigar-shaped object to Emma’s upper arm.
But in order to do that he would have to get past Ponytail, who at first glance seemed far less muscular than his colleague. This was deceptive, however. Marc was familiar with the type and knew how dangerous such scrawny youngsters could be. You tended to underestimate them because they looked like victims themselves but they compensated for their lack of muscle with self-destructive fanaticism, lashing out at anyone and anything within range, even when seriously hurt.
‘Don’t give me any aggro,’ said Ponytail. He took a step closer, crushing Emma’s glasses underfoot.
Kneecap! The word flashed through Marc’s mind. He raised his arms in a gesture of surrender – he even smiled faintly, just as he’d been advised to by Khaled, the sixteen-year-old half-Tunisian who proudly came to the ‘Beach’ after every street fight to show off his latest war wounds.
Khaled was right. There really was no better target than the kneecap for felling an opponent and putting him out of action. But you had to follow it up at once, while he was still being transfixed by dazzling yellow shafts of agony. Three or four kicks aimed at the jaw and temples. If you got the angle right you might even be able to drive your quivering victim’s nasal bone into his brain.
‘Go down and you’re a goner. Stay on your feet and you walk away’ was Khaled’s first rule of the street. It was a rule that had governed the lives of Marc and his brother years ago, long before they went their separate ways. And now Marc was about to discover whether it was still valid after all this time.