Melanie Raabe - The Trap

It was too late.

I am sitting at the window looking out onto the lake. Sometimes I spot an animal at the edge of the woods, a fox or a rabbit — even a deer, if I’m very lucky. But there’s nothing there now.

I’ve been watching the sun rise. I haven’t slept. How could I have slept the night my world collapsed all over again? After the phone call?

I could hear him sit up in bed when I said my name. First there was a rustling down the line, and then his fraught voice.

“Frau Michaelis!” he said. “My goodness!” I had to swallow.

“It’s six in the morning,” he said, alarmed. “Has something happened? Do you need help?”

“No,” I said. “Not really. I’m sorry to disturb you…” There was a brief silence.

“That’s all right. I’m just surprised to hear from you.”

I could hardly believe he’d called me “Frau Michaelis.” And then his professionalism — the practiced composure that immediately took over, crowding out his surprise and his…his…

“How can I help you?”

Hey, Julian, I’ve written a book in which you’re one of the main characters. How are you?

I force myself to be as formal with him as he is with me. Has he really forgotten me? It’s probably for the best.

“I don’t know how much you remember — you investigated the murder of my sister some years ago,” I say.

“Of course I remember you,” he replies after a moment. He sounds neutral. I swallow my disappointment.

What did you expect, Linda?

I try to recall my original intention.

This isn’t about you, Linda.

“I have to ask you something,” I say.

“Please do.”

Entirely neutral. There’s…nothing there.

“Well, it’s about my sister’s case. I don’t know whether you remember, but I found my sister, and…”

“I remember,” he says. “I promised you I’d find the murderer and I wasn’t able to keep my word.”

That, too, he says neutrally. But he does remember that. Go on, Linda, ask him.

“There’s something on my mind.”

“Yes?”

Ask him!

“Well, first of all, I’m sorry if I woke you; it’s a stupid time to ring anyone, I know…It’s…Well, back then…” I swallow. “It wasn’t clear to me for a long time that I was the main suspect.” I pause, waiting for him to contradict me, which he doesn’t.

“And, well, I have to know whether you…” I can hear him breathing. “Did you think I was the murderer back then?”

Nothing.

“ Do you think I’m the murderer?”

Still nothing. Is he thinking about it? Is he waiting for me to carry on talking?

Silence.

He thinks you’re finally going to confess, Linda. He’s waiting for your confession.

“Herr Schumer?” I ask.

I miss our conversations and I can’t think of anything I’d like more than to sit down and let you convince me that poetry can be wonderful. I want to know what became of that tedious colleague of yours and did your wife really move out in the end and do you still have that whorl of hair on the back of your head? And, anyway, how are you? I’ve missed you, Julian. I had the feeling we were from the same star.

“Herr Schumer,” I say, “I have to know.”

“The correct procedures were followed. We investigated every avenue to try to find the murderer.”

Evasive.

“But I’m afraid we were never able to pin him or her down.”

“ Him or her.” Why not “the sister”?

Fuck.

“You’ll have to excuse me: this isn’t the best time. I don’t know if it’s a good idea to speak now. Why don’t we talk more another day?”

After he’s conferred with his colleagues on how to deal with the fact that the main suspect from a decade-old case has got in touch with him out of the blue. After he’s worked out the best way to wring a confession out of you, Linda.

“Thank you,” I say lamely and hang up.

Julian — no, Superintendent Schumer — thinks I’m guilty. I’m on my own. I stand in my big living room, staring out at the lake. Everything is still — inside me, too. Then a switch is flipped and I remember.

It is summer. It is hot — a midsummer’s heat that even the approaching night can’t cool down. The air tastes stale and insipid, nighties stick to thighs, children everywhere toss and turn in their sheets, only to get up after all: Mummy, I can’t sleep. Terrace doors stand open, curtains gently flutter, mosquitoes are plump and contented. The air is charged, babies fret, couples argue. I have had an argument, too: I’ve screamed and raged, I’ve thrown things — ashtrays, books, cups, flowerpots, my mobile, his mobile — everything I could lay my hands on. Shoes, cushions, apples, a can of hairspray, my sunglasses. And there was Marc, laughing uncontrollably — you’ve completely lost it, princess, you’re completely crazy, seriously, you should stop drinking so much — and there was I, even angrier because he was laughing at me, laughing off my anger and jealousy. My God, how can you even think such a thing, your own sister, that’s absolutely ridiculous, completely barmy, princess, I met her by chance, it’s a small town, and Christ, it was only a cappuccino, I didn’t know it was forbidden to have a coffee with your own fiancée’s sister, wow, she was right, you crack me up, there was I thinking she was completely nuts but she was right, you crack me up!

I run out of ammunition. I’m hot and my T-shirt sticks to my back and between my breasts, and I stop and stand there, panting, and I say, “How do you mean?”

Marc looks at me. He stays put — no more missiles for him to dodge — but snorts with laughter.

“How do I mean what?” he asks.

“How do you mean, ‘she was right’?”

Marc shakes his head and, briefly, raises an eyebrow in exasperation.

“Well, if you really want to know, Anna said it would be better if I didn’t tell you we’d met because you’d go ballistic.”

For a moment I am quite weak with anger. I try not to look at him; if I look at him now, I’ll explode. I fix on the newspaper lying on the dining table, concentrating on the headline — German troops in Afghanistan — and then on the photo of the columnist. I stare at the weather-beaten face with unusually pale eyes. I try to calm down. The face flickers before my eyes and I stare at it, but it’s no help at all.

Marc snorts again. “And, idiot that I am, I say, ‘Come on, Anna, what rubbish. Linda is cool.’ And Anna says, ‘You’ll see, Marc. You’ll see.’”

He’s not grinning anymore. He’s staring, as if seeing me for the first time — as if he’d only now realized that his fiancée isn’t cool after all. Cool: the word he always uses to describe me to his mates. Linda is cool, Linda loves football and beer, Linda doesn’t cause any trouble if I spend a night away. Jealousy? Oh, please. Not Linda. Even when I had that thing going with the woman from the marketing department, Linda understood. It was purely physical. I confessed and she understood, because she’s cool. We talk about everything. Linda’s up for anything: lads’ films, cans of beer, porn. Linda has the best sense of humor in the world. Linda is cool.

Marc stares at me. “Why are you being so uncool?” he asks. My anger is clenched tight like a fist, and I grab the car keys and am gone.

Outside, it’s even warmer; the summer night is hot and throbbing. I get in my car and speed off, breathless with rage, my foot pressed down on the accelerator. I find my way; it’s not far. The streets are empty and shimmer blackly, and suddenly I’m at her door, leaning on the bell. She opens up to me in a short dark dress, cellulite-free skin, pearl-necklace smile, gum in mouth. What’s the matter, Linda? And I’m in the flat. What the hell’s going on, Anna? What the hell is this? Are you trying to drive a wedge between me and Marc? Is that it? Are you trying to steal my fiancé, you manipulative little cunt?