5

Thomas ran up to the policeman and placed himself directly in his way. The officer didn’t seem at all phased by the interruption. His eyelids were half-shut, as if focused on a distant plane, perhaps watching a flock of birds rise and fall from a line of rooftops. He stopped and began to smile, then calmly invited Thomas to unburden his troubles.

But Thomas could not talk. A curious passage followed, an insurmountable silence. One man looked at the other; the second man looked expectantly at the first. Thomas suddenly felt foolish and awkward. Betraying his friend was impossible. He simply couldn’t open his mouth and speak the words. He hesitated, and in that hesitation, his resolve crumbled.

He felt suddenly self-conscious. He didn’t want Erich to see him talking to the policeman. He gave a resigned, frustrated smile. The policeman, not wishing to waste any more time, turned around and walked in the opposite direction without another word.

Back inside the apartment building, Thomas made his way up the staircase. A minute later Erich appeared behind him. ‘I saw you with that policeman? What on earth has got into you?’

For the first time, and with some relief, Thomas recognised fear in his friend.

‘Nothing. I didn’t say anything to him. I’m not stupid.’

The two men carried on upwards, sharing between them a deepening silence. At the apartment they found Käthe putting on her coat before a full-length mirror.

‘My god, have you boys been out all night? I’m about to go to work and you two are just getting in!’

‘Did we wake you?’ Erich asked with imponderable lightness.

‘No. I slept like a baby.’ She smiled at Thomas. He caught sight of himself in the mirror and found his face to be drawn and pale.

‘A little too late for men of our age,’ remarked Erich, as he passed through towards the terrace.

Thomas followed, feeling ashamed to the core. ‘Sorry to disturb you,’ he said. ‘We’ll be going home soon.’

‘No, you must stay as long as you want. Rest if you need to.’

‘Thank you. That’s very kind.’

Out on the terrace, Erich leaned against the railings and didn’t say a word. Thomas could do nothing but wander around in something like a daze. Yet his mind remained alert to the possibility of finding a clue to the whereabouts of the boy. All at once it seemed like a vital task and a terrible dream.

Erich’s presence was making him feel bitter. He began to hate his friend. The hate came easily. It was a crisp, brittle feeling. Hatred for his friend was the only truth he could really hold onto.

Yet, for some reason, neither of them could leave the apartment. A strange magnetism kept them together, perhaps the fear of entering back into the wider world. The morning passed; Thomas sought out a secluded corner of the living room and pretended not to notice Erich, who moved around restlessly, eating and flicking mindlessly through books.

Drawn to speculate on the boy’s whereabouts with a dozen different results, Thomas began to feel uncertain about the whole event. Did Erich really push him over or was it an accident, the chance result of a scuffle? Did he go over at all?

Waves of doubt began to churn through him. A boy has been killed! A boy has been killed! He wanted to smear the idea across the whole terrace, shout it from the balustrade, draw people to the bottom of the building to hear him call, a sea of faces pointing up and blinking.

Instead, he went outside and draped himself over the railings, like a piece of meat slung over a butcher’s counter. What he was groping for was an approximation of the feeling, to be as close to the wrong side of the balustrade as possible without actually suffering its danger.

He hung there, baffled and yet mindful. There was something odd about what had taken place, something alien in the way Erich had turned to violence so quickly. Things didn’t add up.

He looked down to the street below. Up here, everything looked so small. It felt like he could reach down and pluck a lamppost or a tree from the earth with a simple pinch of the fingers.

Then he noticed something.

It had begun to rain, only lightly, but where the rain was making the ground wet, shapes were beginning to emerge.

He waited and watched. At the very spot where the thief-boy fell, he could see a form on the ground.

Then the rain stopped and the form began to disappear again.

He lifted himself and went searching around the terrace. He found the watering-can Käthe used to water her flowerpots. It was half-full, just about enough, he hoped.

He took the watering-can back to the railings and angled it over the side. A spray of water fell, drifting into a mist as it swirled down the shaft. The dead-end of the street began to darken again. Lines and markings that weren’t there before began to surface, like shapes rising out of the ground before his eyes.

He poured all the water out and shook the can to release every last drop. Finally, he noticed a contour on the ground. An angled formation looming in the grime.

A hooked limb. A bent arm.

Within the next minute, ripening on the street-floor far below, he saw the silhouette of a body.

The body itself was not there, but with the falling water, its stamp was unmistakable. Two arms and two legs twisted around a body.

He didn’t believe what he was seeing. His eyes hurt and his hands began to tremble. It was true. The body had fallen and hit the ground. There could be no doubting it now.

He drew himself away from the railings and reached out for something to lean on. Unexpectedly, there was Erich. Thomas stepped forward, coughed violently, and almost fell on top of his companion.

Erich lowered him onto a chair. Not yet ready to disentangle himself from the silence and the stillness of the rooftops, Thomas sat motionless, letting seconds slide into minutes. He wanted to go back to the railings and check again, but there was no use in it. He’d seen all he needed to now.

Minutes slipped into hours. As a new evening arrived, among the chime of church bells, he heard the melody of a violin player in a nearby building. He paused on the sound, letting it lace with his senses until he was conscious of nothing else but the thin warbling melody rolling around his head.

Now, on the beat of the last note, he saw Käthe appear at the doorway, returned from her work at the telephone exchange. Her timing was perfect. She came forward into the evening light and smiled. Next, she turned to look at herself in the glass of the door, and turning again, posed for Thomas by arranging her left hand on her hip and lowering her brow. The church bells of Potsdam rang to signal the close of day.

She asked, ‘Do you want to stay for some dinner?’

‘I think I’d like that very much,’ Thomas replied, feeling a sudden surge of warmth between them. He felt desperate to seize that warmth and lose himself in it.

Just at that moment, Erich came out onto the terrace, all brisk and smirking, a drink sloshing in his hand. As he went, he tripped on the step and fell forwards, stretching out his arm to stop himself.

‘Damn it! Look what I’ve done,’ he called out. ‘Did you see that? I tore my jacket.’

He held up his arm and there was the torn armpit, all sagging with loose thread.

Thomas looked on in shame. This is how it will be, he thought. This is how the story will be crafted into a series of accidents and made to disappear.

‘What have you done?’ Käthe asked.

‘My mother bought me this jacket,’ Erich replied. ‘She will be so upset. Let’s drink to that!’

Käthe broke into laughter, passing a happy glance to Thomas. ‘You’re terrible,’ she said to Erich. A grin flashed across Erich’s face as he disappeared back into the apartment. A short time later, he returned with two further drinks.

‘What’s the matter with you?’ he said playfully, handing one of the drinks to Thomas. He gave the other to Käthe.

‘I don’t feel like drinking tonight,’ Thomas said, lowering his head.

‘Come on! Tell us what’s wrong with you?’ Erich’s voice grew stronger, more bullish.

Then Thomas heard his own voice ring out in response. ‘I don’t know. I don’t know!’

‘Actually, you don’t look well,’ Käthe said.

‘Let’s get you inside,’ Erich said in that old tone of condescension. Thomas felt miserable. He felt Erich’s arm lifting him up and leading him one step after another in the direction of the apartment.

‘I’ll look after you,’ Erich said.

He wished it was Käthe saying those words. He wished it was her arm around his waist, her breath on his neck. But it was Erich’s arm gripping his waist and Erich’s hot alcoholic breath rolling over him.

Thomas knew then that a pact had been made, even without his consent. He knew it all too well. And later, as the two men obeyed the slow and heavy trek back to the train station, keeping close to the street walls, ducking their heads from the light of streetlamps and passing cars, he knew again that a pact had been made. It was Erich he had given into, Erich who had taken up the superior role, just as he always did.