Lynne Pemberton - Sleeping With Ghosts

Halfway through the movie Calvin fell asleep. Careful not to wake him Adam switched off the television, then bending down he extracted the half-empty beer can from his son’s grip. Straightening up, he stood very still for a long time, gazing with admiration at his son’s body sprawled across the sofa. Calvin was lean and tanned, and toned from hours on the playing field. And Adam was suddenly filled with an indescribable rush of pride and wonder at the fact that he had somehow created this undeniably handsome young man. All the hackneyed parent-and-child clichés sprang to mind. Adam plumped for ‘the best investment I’ve ever made’.

Briskly he walked down the hall, past the kitchen into the living room. It was a vast space with large floor-to-ceiling windows filling one wall, whilst pictures filled every other available square inch – including the bathrooms and the back of the kitchen door. Adam had never particularly liked the apartment, but now as he looked around he realized he hated it. It was more like a gallery than a home.

‘It’s got no soul,’ he muttered, pouring Scotch into a tumbler and lighting a Marlboro Red, thinking of the months Jennifer had spent decorating the interior with her camp interior designer friend, ‘Jovi’ or ‘Javi’, some stupid name he couldn’t remember. Rolling the whisky around the glass, he listened to the ice clinking while finally deciding that the apartment was a monument to his wife: monochromatic, ultra chic and seriously expensive.

Crossing the room he stood next to the window. It was an exceptionally clear night. The dark sky high above Central Park was wild with stars, gold and white lights twinkling like scattered jewels above and below his eyrie on the twenty-second floor. It reminded him of another night five years ago when he and Jennifer had moved in. Memories of the hours of frenzied unpacking flooded back; hanging pictures in great excitement, and eating Chinese take-aways sitting on packing boxes, drinking Cristal champagne out of hastily washed mugs. Yes, it had been a night similar to this one and they had made love on the floor in exactly the same spot where he now stood. Afterwards, he recalled his bare soles had pressed against the side of a suitcase as he had lain, still deeply embedded in her softness. Adam had been awed by the look of radiance on Jennifer’s face: the serene afterglow when desire has recently departed and love remains.

Turning abruptly away from the window, and the memory, Adam finished his drink, then poured himself another before leaving the room. Padding quietly down the hallway, he passed his favourite painting, a Renoir he had acquired at his first auction. He had been a year older than Calvin, almost eighteen at the time.

During his Spring break he had been invited to accompany Benjamin Krantz, his father, and a world-renowned art dealer to a sale of French Impressionist art at Sotheby’s in London. Encouraged by his father, Adam had entered the bidding, acquiring the painting for three thousand dollars below the estimate. Adam would never forget the thrill he’d experienced when the hammer had come down, with the auctioneer’s shout of ‘Sold’ ringing in his ears, or his excitement when the painting had arrived at the Krantz Gallery on Madison Ave along with several others his father had purchased. Benjamin had given him the picture and Adam’s life-long love of fine art had begun.

His stockinged feet made no sound on the thick pile carpet when he entered his study. Adam knew this room like the back of his hand and easily negotiated his way in the dark. Sitting down, he flicked a switch, illuminating the desk-top. Taking a key out of a drawer, he used it to open another drawer to his left. Lifting out a box file, he began to riffle through the assorted papers. It took him a few minutes to find what he wanted.

Holding the old newspaper cutting under the strong spotlight, he drank deeply of his whisky whilst staring into the arrogant face of Klaus Von Trellenberg standing next to Heinrich Himmler at a Nazi party rally in 1939. Adam narrowed his eyes in hatred, and allowed a cruel smile to distort his generous mouth.

‘I’m going to get you this time, you son-of-a-bitch.’

He was still smiling as he crushed the paper into a tiny ball in the palm of his hand.

Kathryn was very cold. She could not feel her hands and feet, and when she opened her mouth to speak no words came, in fact she was unable to make any sound at all. She was completely naked, and her body looked different. Not quite like her own. It was very thin, and totally hairless. Slowly she parted her legs and to her horror saw that she was covered in open sores.

She was alone in a small room, it was about ten foot square, there were no windows or doors, and the walls were painted white, perfect new snow white. There were no lights, yet it was glaringly bright. It felt like being inside a large floodlit cardboard box. She looked up when she heard the voice, which seemed to be floating out of the ceiling. It was a soothing sound; like a caress it washed over her, and she wondered why she felt afraid.

‘Kathryn, Kathryn, it’s so good to meet you at long last.’

She pulled her legs into her body to cover her nakedness, dropping her head to her knees. She began to shake, her whole body jerking uncontrollably as the voice got louder.

‘Kathryn, it’s your Grandfather Klaus; look at me, Kathryn, please.’

She was afraid to look, but the voice kept insisting, and eventually she raised her head, opening her eyes wide. A disembodied head floated in front of her face. It was covered in a black mask, resembling the type worn by executioners in the Middle Ages. Her mouth opened to scream, but no sound came, and still the voice kept on.

‘I’ve come to save you, Kathryn. I love you, I want to take you home to Germany with me, where you belong.’

The hideous mask came closer. She tried to cover her face, but her limbs were paralysed. The head was an inch from her now. She wanted to close her eyes, but her eyelids refused to move. She could feel hot breath on her cheek; it smelt strangely sweet, like boiling sugar.

The death mask moved up and down, the voice repeating, ‘I love you, Kathryn, your grandfather loves you. I’m going to take you to Germany, you’ll be safe there.’

She could no longer feel her heart beating and thought that perhaps she was dead. Then, suddenly the mask was stuck to her face like glue, the lips fatty and very wet. They began to suck at her, first at her mouth, then at her nose – sucking harder and harder. She struggled to breathe as she felt her whole face being suctioned into the huge gaping gash until she was gasping for air.

Her heart was banging, when a minute later she woke up. The bedclothes were tangled around her head, and for a split second she wasn’t sure where she was. Pulling the sheets off, she sat bolt upright in bed. Her palms were clammy and her hair stuck to her head, soaking wet.

Kathryn took a few deep breaths, she stayed very still until her breathing returned to normal. This was the second time she’d had the dream since her Aunt Ingrid had told her about Klaus Von Trellenberg less than a week ago. She closed her eyes again, willing herself not to think of him. But she could feel her lids twitching as with nagging consistency the cold repetitive voice in her head kept banging on: Klaus Von Trellenberg, Klaus Von Trellenberg. Then her grandfather’s face, as it had appeared in the photograph, materialized in her head. But instead of wearing the arrogant half smile, he was laughing. She could hear him. The sound rose to a hysterical screech, pealing in her ears.

With the flat of her hand, Kathryn wiped small pearls of perspiration from her brow and the back of her neck. Sweat rolled down her temples and she experienced a return to the unreality of the day she had learnt about her unwanted SS connections.