Strangers: A Novel(2)

A man is standing there beneath the light of the ceiling lamp: he is dark haired, broad shouldered. He says something, his mouth moves, but I can’t make out a word of it; every sound seems to be coming from a great distance, only the hammering of my heartbeat is worryingly close and loud. Is this shock?

The man says something again, but it’s as though I’ve suddenly forgotten all my German. For a moment, the room spins around me. Don’t pass out now, I tell myself.

He cocks his head to the side, hesitates. Then he comes toward me. A new thought pounds into my head: You’re so stupid, why didn’t you stay upstairs?

Only when he’s close enough for me to smell a hint of his aftershave does the paralyzing shock finally lift. I edge backward, but toward the wall instead of the door. By the time I realize it’s too late, he’s almost right next to me.

“Get out!” I shout, in the hope of at least startling him. To my surprise, it works. He stops in his tracks.

“Get out, or I’ll call the police!” If I shout a little louder, maybe the neighbors will hear me too.

A burglar would run away now, but the stranger doesn’t do that, and something inside me has already figured out that the man hasn’t broken in here to rob me. No thief wears a suit when he’s breaking into a house. But that means there’s another reason, that the stranger has a different intention … and this thought awakens a completely new kind of fear within me. I take another step back; the floor lamp is right behind me now; I feel it tipping over, almost lose my balance.

“Please,” I whisper. “Please don’t hurt me.”

He is five steps away at most. He doesn’t shift his gaze from me, not for a second.

“For heaven’s sake,” he says. “What’s wrong?”

Another step toward me. I duck down a little, as if it could help, as if I could hide inside myself.

“I don’t have much money in the house, but I’ll give you everything I’ve got, OK? Take whatever you want. But please … don’t hurt me.”

“Is this supposed to be some kind of joke?” He lifts his hands, baring his palms. They’re empty. “Are you feeling sick? Should I call a doctor?”

He’s stopped advancing toward me. That’s all that matters. I slowly straighten up again. The paperweight. Maybe this would be a good moment to throw it.

“Just go, please. I promise I won’t call the police.”

He blinks, takes a few deep breaths in and out. “What’s going on? Why are you talking to me like this?”

If those were signs of uncertainty, then I have a chance. I’ll engage him in conversation. Yes. And grab the first opportunity that presents itself to flee.

“Because … I’m scared, OK?”

“Of me?”

“Yes. You’ve given me a real shock.”

He spread out his arms, coming toward me again. “Joanna…”

My name. I flinch again. He knows my name; maybe he’s a stalker … or maybe he just saw the address details on the envelopes that were lying in the hallway.

I take a closer look at him. Blue eyes beneath thick brows. Prominent features, which I would remember if I’d met him before. He doesn’t look aggressive, nor dangerous, but the sight of him still fills me with a horror I couldn’t explain even to myself.

Now I have the wall behind me. There’s no way out; I’m trapped. My pulse is racing; I lift the paperweight. “Go. Right now.”

His gaze flits back and forth between my face and the glass cube. Then it slips a little lower, making me realize my robe is gaping open more than I would have liked.

“Joanna, I don’t know what you’re doing, but please, stop it.”

“You stop it!” I meant my words to sound authoritative, but in actual fact they sound pathetic. “Stop acting like we know each other and just go, please.”

Something about my fear must be enticing to him; he comes yet another step closer. I edge along the wall to the left, toward the door.

“Will you give it a rest already? Of course we know each other.” His tone is one of impatience, not anger, but that could easily change. Another seven feet to the door. I can make it; I have to make it.

“You’re wrong. Really.” With every sentence I say, I’m winning myself time. “Where are we supposed to know each other from?”

He slowly shakes his head. “Either you’re playing some kind of twisted game with me, or maybe I should get you to a hospital.” He runs his hand through his hair. “We’re engaged, Jo. We live together.”

I stare at him, speechless. What he said was so far from what I’d expected that I need a few seconds to get my head around it.

We’re engaged.

So not a stalker, then. Something much worse. A lunatic. Someone who’s living in his own made-up world. Someone who’s suffering from delusions.

But why, of all the people in the world, am I the one he’s directing them at?

That’s irrelevant, I tell myself. You can’t reason with someone who’s mentally ill, nor convince them with logic. His mood could change at any moment—he seemed peaceful so far, but who knows, a single ill-judged word could be enough to make him aggressive. After all, he used force to break his way into a stranger’s house.