The Girl Who Wouldn’t Die (23 page)

‘Very funny. You got me,’ he said, punching Klaus gently on the arm, feeling his metaphorical balls shrinking up inside his body and cursing himself for it.

Klaus clapped him on the back. Glanced at his watch. ‘Come on. Might as well get showered. We’ve got a big day.’

Checking her watch, which now said 5am, George took out the laptop and booted it up. There was no login to speak of, so no password was necessary. First, she checked the internet browser’s history. She brought up the National Democratic Party of Germany’s website.

‘Far-right rubbish.’

Other than that, Klaus seemed mainly to have been visiting porn sites, heavy metal band websites and, interestingly, her article on
The Moment
’s blog. She checked to see if Klaus had a Blogger or WordPress login name, wondering if he had acted as a spoof al Badaar or one of the trolls who had flamed her for her article. But Klaus’ laptop had not remembered any login details, so she deduced that he probably wasn’t registered. He had clearly only been a passive spectator as the al Badaar fiasco had unfolded.

George knew Klaus’ email address. He had been copied in on a round robin sent by Fennemans at the start of the term. Fennemans was too stupid to Bcc everyone and had listed everyone’s email address in the Cc header instead. She was desperate to log into Facebook under his name but knew any of his insomniac friends would see instantly that he was online if she did so.

She did, however, open his Hotmail, which had the password saved. She glanced down the subject header but found nothing interesting. Then she searched for emails from Joachim. Most from the last week of Joachim’s life were banal comments about lectures or their arrangements to visit family and friends from the fraternity in Heidelberg. But then, George came upon a thread that made her hold her breath long enough to feel dizzy.

The thread was dated three weeks before Joachim’s death and two weeks before Ratan’s.

From:
[email protected]
18.32

To:
[email protected]

Subject:

You’ve gone too far this time. I’m ratting you out and you’d better get over it. You know you’re in the wrong.

From: Klaus Biedermeier (mailto: [email protected]) 16.23

To: Joachim Guttentag

Subject: Re:

But you’re jeopardising all my plans. Everything I’ve been working towards for months.

From:
[email protected]
16.07

To:
[email protected]

aSubject: Re: Re:

I accept your apology but I’m still going to say something about your crazy, hare-brained scheme. You’re going too far.

From: Klaus Biedermeier (mailto:
[email protected]
) 15.49

To: Joachim Guttentag

Subject: Re: Re: Re:

I’m sorry about before. I hope we can still be friends and that you understand what I’m trying to do. It’s for the greater good.

Klaus 47:33 88

‘Got you, you bastard!’ George said.

Had Ad not had a stinking hangover, he would have thought the red stone colonnades that stretched upwards to support the vast vaulted ceilings in the Church of the Holy Spirit were nothing short of stunning. He would have thought it was rather like being inside a dinosaur’s ribcage. But as he sat on a hard wooden seat, breathing in the over-perfumed smell of strangers in their Sunday best, nausea threatened to make even more of an idiot out of him than his missing eyebrow. The stained glass windows were too colourful. The giant church organ that ground out hymn after hymn was deafening. He was bathed in cold sweat.

Several students read aloud depressing extracts from Schiller and other
Sturm und Drang
classics. An overweight soprano sang Brünnhilde’s solo from Act 3 of Wagner’s
Götterdämmerung
. Not a single mention was made of the fact that Joachim had actually been identified as the perpetrator behind the Utrecht synagogue bombing, whether that had been his intention or not. Ad thought the entire service was like some mawkish ode to erudite Joachim’s German perfection. But he still felt sorry for the hapless young man who had died so violent a death.

Why had Klaus not taken the podium to eulogise about his dearly departed friend? Sitting to his left, Klaus looked stiff and formal in his fraternity uniform, holding his cap on his knee. Ad had expected him to be amongst the other frat boys who were all seated in the second and third rows behind Joachim’s weeping family. But instead, Klaus had chosen to sit next to Ad as though he too were an outsider. He fidgeted with his sash, picking imaginary specks of fluff from his trousers. Ad was not so hungover that he didn’t notice this behaviour and think it odd.

Outside, when the service was finished, Ad was swept away from Klaus on a tide of mourners into the middle of the congregation. He found himself making small talk with a mousy-looking girl from Klaus and Joachim’s class. At first, the girl batted her eyelashes at him and ran a hand coquettishly through her hair. She introduced herself as Moni, short for Monika. But when Ad said he had come with Klaus, her behaviour abruptly changed like cold draught suddenly whipping through a warm house.

‘You’re friends with him?’ It was more of a sneer than a question.

‘Not friends. I’m sort of representing my faculty.’

‘Which is where again?’

‘Amsterdam.’

Moni short for Monika snorted. ‘Oh yeah. I remember now. You’re Dutch, then,’ she said.

Ad could see from her wandering eyes that she was already seeking out other people for conversation.
Be direct. Be analytical. Be like George
. ‘So, were you expecting Klaus to say something about Joachim?’ he asked her.

Moni short for Monika clutched at her pink leather handbag as though Ad were about to steal it. She was now looking steadfastly at his missing eyebrow. ‘Not really. Klaus and Joachim were in the same frat house but they weren’t especially close. Not until they went on the exchange year. Then Joachim starts trying to be like Klaus. Starts spouting the same NDP rubbish when he comes back for the weekend.’

‘Oh? Wasn’t he into that before?’

‘I think Joachim’s family is pretty conservative. So, I don’t know. Maybe. But they wouldn’t have wanted Klaus to speak today.’

Ad fingered his shiny bald eyebrow. ‘Why not?’

Moni short for Monika glanced over her shoulder as though she was about to impart a great secret. ‘Klaus might seem popular but most people think he’s a prize arsehole. Nobody apart from the über-toffs really like him and not just because of his political views.’

‘What do you mean?’

She stared at Ad in silence for longer than was comfortable. She seemed to be judging him; assessing whether he would betray a confidence and go running back to Klaus.

‘Honestly, I’m not his friend,’ Ad said.

Moni short for Monika chewed her lip and nodded. ‘They’re all scared of him. Biedermeier’s trouble.’

Ad narrowed his eyes. He felt like she had more to say. Perhaps he wouldn’t get this chance again. ‘What kind of trouble?’

‘The
wrong crowd
kind of trouble.’ She winked conspiratorially. ‘The other frat boys aren’t all cut from the same cloth as him, you know. But there’s always a rotten apple in the barrel and Biedermeier’s it.’ She wiggled her index finger round at her temple. ‘He’s …’ she seemed to be selecting the correct words from a range of possible insults ‘… off balance.’

‘Where are we going?’ Ad asked.

As the gathering dispersed, Klaus had latched back onto Ad, steering him along beautiful cobbled alleyways with pastel-coloured buildings on either side. It was picture-postcard perfect but Ad was sweating freely with trepidation beneath his only suit.

‘You’ll see,’ Klaus said.

Ad could hear boyish exhilaration in his voice and remembered what the mousy Moni had said. Off balance. A euphemism for completely mentally unstable.

Up ahead, a group of five or six frat boys, also in pseudo-military uniform, were clearly making for the same destination. Klaus started to chatter animatedly, as though Ad was an old friend and, perhaps more worryingly, as though he’d had amphetamines with his breakfast potatoes and egg.

‘I’m looking forward to this. I know you’re going to love it,’ he said, clapping Ad on the shoulder.

‘Love what?’ Ad looked at Klaus.

‘You’re going to watch me duel.’

‘What?’

‘A couple of boys have come over from the corps in Freiburg. It’s all set up.’

Ad felt dread erupt in his stomach, sending crippling frost up his gullet. He winced, barely able to force words of protest out of his mouth. ‘I don’t really want to watch a duel,’ he said.

‘Yes you do,’ Klaus said. ‘You can tell all those pussies in Amsterdam what real men do to prove their honour. At a proper university.’

Twenty minutes later, Ad stood in a sports hall breathing too deeply through his nose. His head was still exploding from the hangover. He silently prayed that he wouldn’t vomit over his best shoes in the middle of Klaus’ duel. It was a surreal feeling, being stuck in a room full of strange men his own age, who had elected to slice each other’s faces up in the name of building character. Ad did not like blood. Especially other people’s. The memory of the pathologist’s wastepaper bin popped into his head. He remembered how it had smelled of scented tissues and pencil sharpenings before he had vomited into it. He swallowed down a lump of unruly bile.

‘Bring it on,’ Klaus said to the onlookers as he strutted into the room wearing a chainmail hauberk over a leather apron. A high leather collar peeped out of the top of the ensemble. On his face, he wore steel goggles to which was attached a broad metal nose guard. His right arm was covered with a padded leather arm guard. His left hand was hidden behind his back. He wielded his sword with his right hand, slashing the air with a whipping noise that Ad had only ever heard in samurai or Quentin Tarantino movies.

‘He looks like an alien,’ Ad said under his breath. ‘What the hell …?’

Another man, shorter than Klaus by at least five inches, walked to the centre of the room. He was wearing the same medieval-style regalia and bug-like goggles. Ad supposed this was one of the Freiburg frat members. The smaller man mounted a platform, which made him equal to Klaus in height.

There was a sense of eager expectation amongst the men in the room. Ad could see it in the way they fidgeted and spoke too quickly, too loudly. But what was this? An older man stood at the sidelines with a medi-pack and a suturing kit at the ready. Was he a doctor? Ad felt dizzy and had to steady himself against the wall.

To the right of Klaus and his short opponent stood other frat members. He recognised Klaus’ partner as Carsten, participant in the Feuerzangenbowle debacle.

Is Carsten there in case Klaus dies or something? Are they going to stab each other? Yes. They’re going to bloody stab each other. They’re only a few feet apart. He’s going to ritually slaughter the short bloke and I’m going to die. Oh my God. And yet, they’re all smiling and nodding.

The excitement in the air was almost palpable, but though he could feel it, Ad did not understand it even in the slightest.

With swords crossed high above their heads, the duelling began. The clash of metal made Ad’s fillings throb in his mouth. Klaus sliced downwards at an angle. The short man blocked it, and chopped back at Klaus. Neither man seemed to move or dodge the other’s downwards lunges. Klaus’ razor-sharp sword slid into his opponent’s cheek. The man barely flinched.

‘Christ!’ Ad said, loud enough to attract angry stares from the others.

He slumped against the wall, increasingly lightheaded as he watched the short man bleed freely down his face. Then Klaus took a hit. More blood. No baulking or reaction whatsoever from the crowd.
These people are all mad.

Ad felt vomit rise quickly, ruthlessly in his throat. He sprinted to the toilet just in time to avoid defiling his shoes.

Some time later, he was still leaning over the toilet bowl, spitting into the water, when he heard Klaus’ voice on the other side of the cubicle.

‘Are you okay?’ Klaus asked.

‘No.’

‘It’s over now. You can come out. I won. I’ve got a new number. I’m 52:35 now.’

Ad blew his nose loudly on some toilet roll, flushed the toilet and unlocked the cubicle door.

‘Bloody hell. You look terrible,’ he said, cursorily glancing at the red, weeping cuts on Klaus’ face.

Klaus raised his hand to touch the wounds. ‘They’ve been stitched.’ He spoke in a clipped, mealy-mouthed way, as though he could no longer move his facial muscles freely.

‘Do they hurt?’

‘Of course they fucking hurt. We don’t use anaesthetic.’ There was more than a hint of pride in his voice.

‘You’re an animal.’

Klaus laughed with a stiff, expressionless face. But his eyes were positively brimming with joy. ‘Come on. Let’s go and drink beer. A lot of beer. I’ve got some friends I want you to meet.’

Ad groaned. He felt like Klaus had reached inside his battered body and punched him in the heart. He had never been so homesick in his life. But at 8pm it was too late to go back to Amsterdam. Ad was stranded in Heidelberg with a psychopath and all his dysfunctional friends.

‘What’s with the number?’ Ad asked, washing his face in the men’s room sink.

He forced himself to look properly at Klaus in the mirror. Klaus looked like he had been carved up for Sunday lunch and sewn back together again.

‘The number of my
schmissen
– my cuts. I’ve now given fifty-two and received thirty-five. We all sign our names with our numbers. I was at 47:33 for a long time because I’ve been away but now I’ve got a more impressive number. I’m no longer the fresh faced Fox now. I’m a fully fledged Bursch. It’s a mark of my achievements.’

‘You think slicing each other’s faces up is an achievement?’

Ad made a mental note that Klaus seemed impervious to fear, other people’s sensitivities and pain. It was like someone had switched off his humanity. At that moment it occurred to Ad that Klaus did indeed have the ideal predisposition to be a murderer. And yet, there was a side to him that seemed lonely and vulnerable; desperate for acceptance.