Sascha Arango - The Truth and Other Lies

“Are you injured?”

Henry looked down. It was only now that he noticed his stained trousers, and remembered ripping a strip off his favorite shirt. Its sleeves were stained with congealed blood.

“The blood’s from the other man. Is he still alive?”

The doctor nodded. “There’s a fair amount broken, including his skull, and he’s lost a lot of blood, but he’ll pull through. Did you bring him here?”

——

He was given a glass of water. In the doctor’s room in the emergency department, Henry washed the blood off his hands and described where the accident had happened and what he’d seen and done. He didn’t mention the fact that he’d lain in wait for his pursuer around the corner — why should he? On a table Henry saw half-full cups, and partly eaten salami sandwiches, abandoned in the rush to help others.

“Did you pull anything out of his chest?”

“Yes, there was a piece of metal in it — it was bubbling terribly. I thought it might get in the way of his breathing.”

“He has a collapsed lung; he would have suffocated.”

“Then it was the right thing to do?”

“You saved his life.”

Henry produced his ID. A statement was drawn up, which Henry signed. A pretty nurse brought his jacket from the car. Her white smock suited her fantastically well. Why is it, Henry wondered, that men love women in uniform?

“The police will be in touch with you, Mr. Hayden.”

“I daresay they will.”

He looked at the clock. Time was running short; too much was happening. He could still make his appointment at forensics, because he’d set off early. But should he drive to his own arrest in this state?

“You don’t happen to have a pair of trousers and a clean shirt for me, do you?” The doctor disappeared briefly into the room next door and returned with trousers and a shirt. “These are the consultant’s; the shirt’s mine.” They both fit, although the trousers were a little tight. “Just send everything back to the hospital afterward.”

As Henry was walking along the gray corridor of the emergency department, the nurse came running after him. She was bringing him his jacket for the second time.

“You’re a writer, aren’t you?”

“And you?”

“If I could write like you I certainly wouldn’t be a nurse. My condolences, Mr. Hayden.”

“What for?”

“Your wife. I saw it in the newspaper. Can I take a photo of us?”

“Another time. When I’m wearing something appropriate.”

Henry put his jacket on after he got back in the car. He unwound the blood-encrusted bandage on his wrist and dropped it onto the floorboard. He examined the wound where the marten had bitten him. The skin around it was reddened and slightly swollen. For a moment he considered going back to emergency to have the scratch looked at, but then he rejected the idea. It was too ridiculous. Just now he’d pulled a stake out of a stranger’s chest; there was his dead wife lying in forensics, and he had life imprisonment to look forward to. When Henry set off, his memory of the accident was already fading, like a dream that is blotted out when you wake up.

He had no concrete notion of what awaited him. He would make no confession when he was arrested, but wait and see what charges were brought against him. A defendant should say little in court. Or, better still, keep silent. You can lie too. An accused person enjoys the rare privilege of being allowed to lie. Besides, you’re the center of attention. It’s no rare thing for criminals in the dock to feel a sense of endorsement and a genuine interest in them and their mucked-up lives for the first time. Some of them are so taken with this that they confess more than is necessary, for the sole purpose of having people listen to them. It is possible that people of this type would never have become criminals if they’d been given a taste of the precious elixir of recognition a little earlier. The victims of a crime, the bereaved, wait to be acknowledged in vain, for it is well known that the reward for suffering consists in evading punishment. Recognition is rarely just.

Henry had all the time in the world now. He would spend the rest of his life waiting and remembering. Maybe he’d even write a book and become a better person. He would also, of course, have his regrets.

The Institute of Forensic Medicine was a gray roughcast building, plain and functional, without any kind of ornamentation at all. Jenssen was sitting on the front steps with a plastic coffee cup in his hand, leafing through a thin folder. When he caught sight of Henry, he put the cup down on the steps and walked toward him with an outstretched hand. His eyes took in the Maserati, then Henry’s shoes.

“What happened?”

Henry examined his blood-smeared shoes. There you are, he thought, you forgot about them. That’s how quickly it happens.

“A road accident in front of me. It’s not my blood. Shall we go in?”

Jenssen refrained from asking any more questions. A thoroughly agreeable trait of character. “You don’t have to do this,” he said to Henry on the stairs. “We could just wait for the results from the DNA analysis instead.”

“Of course we could. But I’d like to see my wife. I’m grateful to you for calling me up straightaway. Does she look terrible?”

“I haven’t seen her yet either. To be honest, I’ve never seen a drowned body.” Jenssen scratched himself. “But there’s a first time for everything, eh?”

That’s what you want in a police officer, Henry thought. There’s nothing he doesn’t know about human nature, and yet he remains a decent guy, sympathetic, open to basic emotions and not indifferent to other people’s suffering.

“Where’s your charming colleague who looks a bit like…”

“An opossum?” Jenssen laughed loudly. Henry nodded. “She really is the spitting image of an opossum. She never comes to forensics. She says it stinks too much for her.”

Jenssen realized this was less than professional, and he became serious again. “Would you like a cup of coffee?”

“Maybe later,” Henry replied. “Let’s get it over and done with.”

Jenssen let Henry go on ahead. Henry suspected that Jenssen’s exceptionally polite treatment of him had little to do with respect and a lot to do with his investigative techniques. A locked door opened with a buzz, they crossed a corridor where a vending machine was humming and stopped in front of a sheet of glass. Behind the glass sat a woman who was scowling. No wonder — it would put you in a bad mood, sitting in that glass box all day long, being stared at like a monkey. The corridor smelled of cleaning agent and instant coffee, and there was something else unidentifiable in the air, rising up from the basement.

Henry signed another form, cast a glance back toward the daylight coming in from the window, and passed through blue double doors. A flight of stairs led down to the basement to a changing room where Jenssen handed Henry green plastic overshoes and overalls. As Henry was putting on the overalls, he noticed the other man observing him. But he wasn’t going to make it that easy for him.

“What happened to your wrist?”

A delayed question, Henry thought. So Jenssen had noticed the wound earlier on. The question came later, as a surprise. Part of his tactics, Henry thought; I must make a note of that.

“Something bit me.”

Henry followed Jenssen into the Hades of the morgue. The smell of putrefying flesh was intense. This is the place where death delights to help the living read an inscription on the wall. Jenssen laid a hand on Henry’s shoulder.

“May I give you some advice?”

“By all means.”

“You might as well start breathing through your nose now.”