Splinter

62

Marc stared dazedly at the screen, which was now showing Sandra in close-up. Her hair was sweaty and dishevelled and her eyes were bloodshot and puffy. She looked drained and desperate, but even though he had never seen her in such a state before, it was unmistakably his wife.

There followed a quick cut to a lanky young reporter. He looked rather too immature to be making an investigative contribution to a TV news magazine, but his deep voice made up for his lack of gravitas.

‘Up to now, the Bleibtreu Clinic has been regarded as a reputable private hospital specializing in psychosomatic disorders. In the last few days, however, it has aroused controversy by conducting an unusual experiment. An experiment said to be taking place in the building just behind me, apparently without official authorization.’

The camera panned across the scaffolding in front of the clinic and homed in on the brass plate beside the entrance. The reporter continued in voice-over: ‘MME, the memory experiment – that’s the name of the programme whose participants are being brainwashed, ostensibly in order to eradicate their most distressing memories. It’s a tempting idea, of course. Fatal accidents, unhappy love affairs, personal tragedies – what if we could permanently forget all the things that prey on our minds?’

The reporter reappeared. Inquisitive passers-by came into shot as they turned to watch him walking along the street in front of the clinic. ‘But what if something goes wrong, as it did in the case of this patient whose records have been leaked to us?’

Marc gave a start. The television was showing a partially blacked-out document. The names of the doctors in attendance had been obliterated, but his own name appeared on nearly every line, and his photograph in the top right corner of the patient’s record sheet had not been blacked out.

Unimaginable though it seemed, Sandra confirmed the evidence of his eyes. ‘Yes, that’s my husband’s file,’ she said, sounding even more desperate than before. ‘Please quote his name and publish his picture. It may help him to recover his memory.’

The camera pulled back to reveal all of her. She was lying in a hospital bed, her body more bloated than ever.

Marc began to shed silent tears.

‘My husband underwent treatment there, I’ve no idea why, and now he can’t remember a thing.’

Another cut to a hand-held-camera shot of the Bleibtreu Clinic’s reception desk, in front of which Emma had so recently been overpowered. Suddenly a hand shot up and obscured the lens. A tussle ensued, and the camera’s view of the lobby went haywire.

‘Unfortunately, the clinic’s medical director declined to comment on these accusations. Our camera crew was forcibly ejected.’

The report wound up with a final shot of Sandra in hospital. ‘He can’t remember a thing,’ she repeated. ‘Not even me or the baby.’ Tears were streaming down her cheeks. ‘Good God, he doesn’t even know there are complications.’

Complications?

His wife was now addressing the camera direct. ‘Marc, if you’re watching this, I need you here with me. Please!’ she sobbed. ‘There’s something wrong with our baby. They’re going to have to deliver it prematurely.’

There the report ended. Back in the studio the two presenters resumed their appalling patter, grinning as if they’d just concluded a live broadcast of the Oktoberfest.

‘There, you can carry on voting now,’ the man said with a laugh. ‘Would you have yourself brainwashed into not remembering any nasty experiences?’

‘Or,’ the woman added, ‘will you say no, that’s not for me – I don’t want to wind up like Marc Lucas. His wife is giving birth this very afternoon, by the way. Her baby is due to be delivered any minute – by Caesarian section at the Senner Hospital – and it’s really tragic that the father won’t…’

Unable to bear it any longer, Marc stood up and put his fingers in his ears, yelling in an attempt to drown the presenters’ voices.

At that moment, down in the drive, a shot rang out.