The Dark Frontier A. Decker (i like reading TXT) 📖

something different about this one. He wore a conspicuous otherness that set him apart from the earlier passers-through. This one did not exude the contentment with his lot in the way the other guests had done. His face displayed a doughy sheen about it with an unhealthy shade of pasty grey. It belied the calm, eager-to-please smile that was fixed into place.

Frank lifted his glass, almost as a kind of reflex response to the anxiety this man instilled in him. He became aware of the man’s insistent eyes homing in on him from the other table. Involuntarily Frank turned his gaze towards him. The stranger smiled with thick wet lips that seemed about to pout their message across the room with a blatant, almost unctuous self-assurance that Frank found both disturbing and disgusting.

Inclining his head coquettishly, the stranger raised his glass to Frank, who just about caught the words ‘zum Wohl’ distorted slightly by the spittle in his mouth. It was clear to Frank that it was well past time for him to go.

But even this, even his leaving, was not allowed to pass without the stranger insisting himself on Frank’s unease. As he edged by the table where the man was sitting, and drew level with him – almost waist to shoulder – the stranger raised his glass again, and wished Frank a pleasant evening. Without so much as a glance in his direction, Frank kept straight on through the doorway but still he could sense the man’s expression, his staring eyes, his luscious lips radiating their obsequious smile.

The fresh evening air brought welcome relief. It cleared his head of all this interference and left him space to consider his reunion with Achim and his non-existent rendezvous with Patricia Roche. Two diametric opposites. And both signalled failure.

The way from the wine tavern to the Storchen was short. Too short. Five minutes if he really took his time. And time was a commodity he needed to take in very large measure. So, when he came out into the fresh air, he headed immediately down to the market square. And into the teeth of a cold wind that blew into the square off the river. It reminded me that spring was still a long way off. The market had long since closed and the place was almost empty. He crossed over and headed up the narrow mediaeval street that led to the cathedral square.

After the day’s disappointments, he knew that he would not be finding any peace that night. So it came as no great surprise when he realised, as he was climbing the steep cobbled street, that he was being followed. It was not a feeling he was familiar with. To his knowledge he had never been followed in his life before. Yet without turning, stopping, or hesitating in any way, he knew that someone was there in the shadows behind him. Watching.

Frank did his best not to let panic get the upper hand. He persuaded himself that it was merely a fellow stroller who just happened to be on the same path as him. Not without some difficulty he kept his composure and continued on towards the cathedral. But his ears were alerted now. And every hint of movement had his full attention, had him analysing and interpreting the content of each and every sound. When he reached the square, he paused at the large stone fountain under the trees, ran his fingers through the icy water, and turned his gaze back in the direction he had come from. The street and the square were empty, lined only by a mass of shadows from the trees, which whispered suspiciously with each rustle of wind through their branches. A stray scrap of paper scampered across the ground in the darkness. In every meaningful sense of the word, the place appeared to be deserted.

Yet still he could feel the presence. Somewhere not far away. In the black recesses of the night. His heart started to race. A chilling anxiety began to close in on him, threatening to shut out the natural noises of the street in all its emptiness: the cold wind sweeping round the cathedral walls from the river; the ice-cold running water of the fountain; a distant tram. He struggled to keep his grip on these small footholds in reality.

But the stark looming edifice of the minster behind him threw a vast shadow over his unease. He wondered how many scenes of religious intolerance and persecution these cold sandstone walls had already witnessed. What mystery they were being treated to at this very moment. The darkness still whispered shades of menace. And he speculated as to which of the eclipses in the orbit of this building might conceal the threat that was meant for him.

With breathless agitation, he made his way around the cathedral to the terrace overlooking the river. He remembered feeding the pigeons here only a few days before, and now sensed he was throwing himself at the mercy of vultures. But who were they? And what did he have to be frightened of? Nothing. Yet everything. Frank recalled the story of Berthold Jacob and his abduction not far from where he was standing. But Jacob was a journalist – and a Jew into the bargain. A man who had invited trouble through his provocative articles. What was Frank by comparison? A nobody with no secrets and no commitments.

While his paranoid state appeared to dwell on a plural enemy, there was no good reason for assuming that he was being followed by more than one person. Or even that he was being followed at all. The shadows and the mediaeval edifice remained totally loyal to their protégés. Not a single movement out of place did they betray. From the open safety of the terrace, his back to the river, he stood watching these shadows for a single false move. It seemed an eternity until he felt secure enough to start sidling cautiously along the terrace wall. At