twenty-two was going to be somewhere down to our left. We walked on, merging with the crowds of Monday- morning shoppers. It looked like half of Berlin’s mothers were out and about, holding back their toddlers with baby reins.
I got the feeling I’d been here before, though it was hard to tell now the area had gone upmarket. It was definitely ex-Bohemia. Every other shop seemed to sell Indian tablecloths and shiny cushions, hemp clothing and candles. Pumpkins were strewn outside organic food shops as a come-on for anyone not already seduced by the New Age music. Boxes of books were laid out on the pavement, alongside bric-a-brac and rails of used clothes. The Turkish influence was obvious, the smell of coffee wafting out of every other shop.
We carried on until we saw numbers forty-eight and forty-six across the road, then stopped under an awning and leant against a wall. Suzy browsed through rails of old leather jackets and jeans while I tried to work out where twenty-two was. When I did, I stared at it in disbelief.
She followed the direction of my gaze. Number twenty-four was a large fruit and veg shop, with trays of produce piled up outside and guys selling from them as if it was a market stall. To the left of it was a plain, off- white apartment block with large square windows set into its facade. There was a central doorway that I assumed led to the apartments, with a shopfront either side. The one to the left was a cafe called Break-out; the one on the right had an illuminated sign, and you didn’t have to know any German to understand what Evangelisch- Freikirchliche meant. Josh would have liked it here.
As we came out from under the awning and moved closer, Suzy pulled on my jacket sleeve. ‘It gets better.’ She nodded towards the top of the building, at a neon cross maybe twenty feet high, then got out her gum. ‘Say what you like about these arseholes, but they do a nice line in irony.’
‘Let’s do a walk-past.’
We crossed the road, Suzy’s right hand in my left, and her guidebook prominent in the other. We passed the fruit and veg place and looked through the glass front of the church. White stone steps led up to what looked like Hotel Heaven’s reception desk. There were quite a few people checking in. The entrance to the apartments was a large glazed door with two glass side panels, and a stainless-steel push-button intercom system. Names appeared in only two of the slots.
Break-out was dark inside, with bare floors and stainless-steel tables, about half filled with coffee drinkers. We meandered on, not knowing where we were going, but it didn’t really matter. All we wanted to do was move clear.
We carried on along Bergmannstrasse and turned right as soon as we could to get out of line of sight of the flats. After the rush of the main street this was a bit surreal: we were in a cemetery.
Old grannies placed flowers on graves, while their grandkids played quietly. Paths were dotted with reflection seats, many filled with young couples who seemed to be doing precious little reflection. Suzy and I found one from where we could see the back of the apartment block, and sat down.
54
As the church filled up on the first floor, Suzy’s hands worked inside the carrier-bag, pulling away the cardboard and plastic packaging from the knives. I ripped the plastic away from the goggles, masks and the ten- pack of latex gloves, and stuffed half of them into my pockets. The rest were for Suzy.
‘This is how I see it. I’ll try to leave the front door open in case you need it. I’ll collect DW, and meet you back here. If I’m not back in thirty, or you don’t get a call, come and get me. If the front door is closed, there might be another way in through the church, or maybe round the back here. You need to check it out.’
She nodded and one of her hands jerked against the side of the bag as a knife suddenly parted company with its wrapping. ‘OK, thirty – then I’ll come and save your arse, yet again.’
I took off my bumbag and passed it over. I was going in there sterile, apart from the cell. She slipped me two of the shorter vegetable knives and they went into my jacket pocket.
‘Thirty, then?’ I got up, kissed her cheek, then started walking. I turned left out of the graveyard, back on to the busy main, then left again towards the building. Break-out had got busier and so had the church: people were filing in munching on sandwiches, or fruit fresh from the stall. I stopped by the bank of call buttons for the flats. The organ was thumping out a happy-clappy tune next door as I used a knuckle to press twenty-seven. It took for ever, but at last the speaker crackled. I heard someone coughing, then nothing apart from a burst of static. A truck roared past and I had to put my mouth right up to the intercom. ‘I’ve been sent from London. You’re expecting me.’
There was a delay, then the door gave a buzz. Once inside, I used my foot to stop it locking again, and had a look round. There was no CCTV: the only visible security was the intercom and door lock, a Yale-type device that couldn’t be overridden. I folded one of the masks over the bolt and pushed the door closed so it wedged in position.
I found myself in a white fake-marble hall that smelt of pine cleaning fluid. According to the signs, twenty- seven would be on the second floor. As I climbed the stairs, listening to a dim murmur from the happy-clappies and the squeak of my Caterpillars on the shiny floor, I started to pull on a pair of gloves.
The steel-and-glass fire door to the second floor opened into a clinically white corridor. There were apartment doors on both sides; I put on the goggles and all four masks as I squeaked down towards number twenty-seven. It was at the end on the left, which meant it faced the main.
Checking my protection one last time, I knocked on the door, making sure my face was directly in front of the spyhole. I was standing there for a good fifteen seconds before I heard the sound of gaffer-tape being stripped away. It opened eventually, just a quarter of the way, and what I saw made me step straight back against the wall on the other side of the corridor. Six foot, my arse: I wanted to be a hundred from this fucker.
The face at the door belonged to a young Turk or Arab, mid-twenties maybe, his hands stained red with paint. That didn’t worry me. What did was the state of his face. His eyes were bloodshot and he was soaked with sweat. He panted rather than breathed, and snot poured from his nose. I lifted my hand to stop him coming any further towards me. ‘You speak English?’
He nodded, then disappeared behind the door and gave an agonizing cough. Even through the masks, the smell of shit and decay seeping out from the flat was overpowering.
His head reappeared, framed by lank, greasy hair.
‘Bring the bottles to the door, OK? You get that?’
He nodded slowly, wiped his nose with his sleeve and shuffled back into the flat, leaving the door ajar. The happy-clappies were still doing their bit for God down below.
I moved left along the opposite wall until I got level with the doorway. The hall was small, square and empty, apart from the vomit covering the carpet and splashed up the walls, and the lengths of gaffer-tape that had probably been sealing the gap between door and frame. I heard more vomit hitting the floor and moved further left. Some of the living area came into view; I could see a big square window, curtained off with cheap material that let in the light. The walls were covered with the same red, spray-painted lettering we’d seen at King’s Cross. I moved a little more to the left to try to see more, and wished I hadn’t.
A dark-skinned body was sprawled on the carpet. I couldn’t tell if it was male or female, because it was in an even worse state than Archibald. On the floor next to it were two shoulder-bags. I didn’t need Simon here to tell me what was inside.
I could feel myself starting to gag.
The stomach was so bloated that it had burst through the vomit-covered shirt. All the exposed flesh was covered with saucer-sized scabs, weeping pus that glistened in the light. More vomit clung to the face. I couldn’t tell if he or she was still alive; if they were, it wouldn’t be for much longer.
I heard the noise of retching from another room, followed by a wet, phlegm-laden cough that sounded like a drain being cleared. My guy was still trying to make it to the door.
The body’s head moved, rolling to one side so that its dark eyes looked at me. The mouth smiled, just for a second or so, before it spewed its guts up, probably for the last time. Fuck ’em, they didn’t look or sound like martyrs to me.
He made it to the door, carrying a six-bottle wine carton. One of the spaces was empty. Maybe they’d had a
