Melanie Raabe - The Trap

“ The Little Mermaid .”

“Have you ever killed anyone?”

“No.”

The answer comes swiftly, like the others. But he knows we’re getting to the heart of the matter. What is he hoping for? How’s he going to get out of this one?

“Are you afraid of death?”

“No.”

“What’s the most traumatic thing that’s ever happened to you?”

He clears his throat. “This.”

“Is there anything you’d kill for?”

“No.”

“Would you kill for your daughter?”

“Yes.”

“But you said…” He loses his cool.

“I know what I said!” he shouts. “Dear God! Of course I’d do anything to protect my child.”

He tries to calm down, but fails.

“Can you tell me what the hell’s going on here?” He’s yelling.

“What the fuck is this? Is it a game? Are you thinking out a new crime novel? Am I your guinea pig? Is that it? Fuck!”

He slams his clenched fist down on the table. His fury is elemental. It scares me, despite the gun in my hand, but I contain my emotions. Outside, the sun is shining again; I can feel the warmth of its rays on my cheek.

“Calm down, Herr Lenzen,” I say and raise the gun. “This is not a toy.”

“I can see that!” Lenzen snarls. “Do you think I’m a choirboy? I know what a bloody gun looks like. I was almost kidnapped twice in Algeria; I’ve reported on goddamn warlords in Afghanistan: I am perfectly capable of telling a real gun from a water pistol, believe me.”

His face is bright red. He’s losing control. I don’t know whether that’s a good thing or a bad thing.

“You don’t like the situation,” I say matter-of-factly.

“You’re damn right I don’t! Can’t you at least tell me…” he begins.

“But you can put an end to the situation at any time,” I say, interrupting him.

I try to sound calm. I hadn’t yet been as conscious of the microphones in the house as I am at this moment.

“And how can I go about doing that?” Lenzen demands.

“By giving me what I want.”

“What do you want, for heaven’s sake?”

“The truth,” I say. “I want you to confess.”

Lenzen stares at me. My gun and I stare back. Then he blinks.

“You want me to confess,” he echoes in disbelief. Everything in me is quivering.

“That’s exactly what I want.”

Lenzen makes a deep, rumbling noise. It takes me a moment to realize that it’s laughter — mirthless and hysterical.

“Then maybe you’d like to tell me what the hell I’m supposed to confess to! What have I done to you? I didn’t ask for this interview!”

“You don’t know what I’m talking about?”

“I haven’t the faintest idea,” says Lenzen.

“I find that hard to…”

I get no further. With a swooping movement, Lenzen lunges at me across the table; he’s over it in a split second, sweeping me off my chair. My head strikes the floor hard and Lenzen’s on me. A shot goes off, my brain explodes, I see only mottled red, hear a whistling sound in my ears. I kick and thrash and try to heave Lenzen off me, but he’s too heavy. I want to get away from him — get away — and, instinctively rather than deliberately, I bring the gun down on his skull. He screams and goes limp. I roll him off me, get to my feet, take a few steps backward, and stumble, almost falling over my chair. I manage to stay on my feet and stand there, gasping for air. I point the gun at Lenzen. I’m perfectly calm now; there’s no anger left in me — only cold hatred. I feel like pulling the trigger. Lenzen’s crouching before me, motionless, staring into the muzzle of the gun. I see his wide-open eyes, the sweat glistening on his face, the rise and fall of his chest — I see everything as if in slow motion. My right hand, holding the gun, trembles. The moment passes. I regain self-control and lower the gun a little. I realize I’ve been holding my breath. Lenzen’s gasping for air; we’re both gasping for air. He’s bleeding from a wound on his head. He gets onto his knees, looking out at me from behind metallic eyes — a wounded animal.

“Get up,” I say.

Lenzen gets up. He puts his hand to his head and looks aghast when he feels the blood. I fight back my nausea.

“Turn around and walk towards the front door.” He looks at me uncomprehendingly.

“Go on,” I say.

I follow him with raised gun, steering him on wobbly legs toward the guest bathroom which, as luck will have it, is right next to the dining room. I get him to take a towel, wet it, press it to the bleeding. It’s soon clear that the wound is tiny; I didn’t hit him properly at all. Neither of us says a word; only our heavy breathing is audible.

Then I steer Lenzen back to the dining-room table. Thick clouds cover the sun and dusk is falling; we’re on the narrow ridge between daytime and evening. Far off, there’s a rumble. The storm that Charlotte had prophesied is coming. It may be some time coming, but the air in the room is already electrically charged.

“Please,” said Lenzen, “let me go.”

I stare at him. What is he thinking?

“I don’t know what you want from me,” he says. “And I don’t know what kind of a game you’re playing. But you’ve won.”

Tears are gleaming in his eyes. Not bad. The blow on his head really was good for something.

“You don’t know what’s going on here?” I ask.

“No!”

He almost screams the word.

“Why did you say earlier on that you had the impression the sister in my book was the murderer?” I ask. “Were you trying to provoke me?”

“Why should that provoke you? I don’t understand you!” Lenzen shouts. “You were the one who wanted to talk about the book!”

Not bad.

“And the carry-on with Charlotte?”

He looks at me as if I were speaking a foreign language.

“Charlotte?”

“Charlotte, my assistant. What was all that about?”

Lenzen gives a tortured sigh and forces himself to reply calmly.

“Listen. Your assistant was flirting openly with me; I’m not to blame for that. I was just trying to be friendly; you can’t hold that against me, I…”

“What was the idea behind the questions about my dog?”

“I wasn’t hoping to achieve anything with those questions, Frau Conrads,” he says. “Please try to remember that I’m here at your behest. You invited me. I’m being paid to talk to you. I’ve treated you politely throughout. I’ve done nothing that would justify your behavior toward me.”

“What was the idea behind the questions about my dog?”

“We’re here for an interview, right?” says Lenzen.

He looks at me as if I were a dangerous animal that might pounce on him at any moment. I can sense how much strength it’s costing him to keep calm.

I don’t reply.

“You’d mentioned that you had a dog,” says Lenzen, “so it’s only natural that I should ask about it.”

By now he probably thinks I’m completely nuts — totally unpredictable. That’s good. With a bit of luck, I’ll soon have him where I want him.

“Why did you ask me if I was afraid of death?”

“What?”

“Why did you ask me if I was afraid of death?” I repeat.

Again I hear thunder, far, far away — a menacing rumble, like the scolding of a morose giant.

“I didn’t,” he says.

He looks bewildered. Not for the first time, I am on the point of getting up and applauding him.

“Please let me go,” he begs. “I’ll forget this has happened. Only…”

I interrupt him. “I can’t let you go.”

His hypocritical posturing, his crocodile tears, his yammering — it all makes me feel sick. I find it hard not to puke at his feet. Seven stabs — and he goes to pieces over a little cut.