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

an opening in this wall he stopped, hesitated a few seconds as he surveyed the darkness one last time, then darted away and down the steps that led to the river.

Once down on the promenade and round the corner he sought the safety of the bushes and trees. And waited, breathless, for his pursuers to appear. He shivered in the breeze blowing off the water when suddenly he heard what sounded like the giggling of a female voice. Through the bushes, he watched a couple arm in arm emerge at the bottom of the steps. She was all over him, a little tipsy judging by her laughter. But he was evidently enjoying the attention and allowed himself to be firmly anchored to the trunk of a tree, where she proceeded to take her pleasure of him.

The extravagance of her enjoyment made Frank feel a shade uncomfortable and more than a little absurd as he stood behind a tree barely two metres from their boisterous passion. And since their exhibition provided him with the kind of cover that would distract anyone who might be on his tail, he considered it a good opportunity to go. So, as silently as the undergrowth would allow, he detached himself from the tree and, confident that he must surely now be alone, made his way back to the safety of his hotel room.

Chapter 7

It was Friday already. Ellen had by now been treated to Marthe’s favourite tea house and a whole series of sights and historical landmarks that meant very little to her. To end the tour, she was also keen that Ellen should see the house where C.G. Jung lived – something of “a shrine for my psychiatrist husband,” she said. “It’s on the other side of town in the harbour area. But Basel’s a small city, and we can do the round trip in an hour, just have to change onto the number 8 tram.” So off they went.

But the whole time Ellen was out sightseeing with Marthe-cum-travel guide, her mind was elsewhere. Her attention was on the people who passed by. On the men striding ahead of her. On the faces in trams and buses. On the crowds at tram stops and the people on benches. On the vaguest of hopes that Frank might be among them.

When Dr Zellweger arrived home early that Friday evening, he was still unable to give Ellen any further news of Frank. There had been no reports of anyone bearing the slightest resemblance to her missing husband. He seemed to have simply vanished off the face of the Earth.

Ellen stood in the lounge after dinner, contemplating the cheerless ambience of the erotic painting on the wall. And wondered how long her own cheerless situation would continue.

“Do you like the painting?” Dr Zellweger asked. Ellen jumped. She had not heard him follow her into the lounge. And she spun round with a faintly embarrassed smile. It seemed a provocative question, and she was not sure how to respond.

“I find it quite sad.”

“My wife doesn’t like the picture either. But she tolerates it. She thinks the lounge is not the place for such a picture and believes I hang it here just for the thrill. Simply to shock.”

“And do you?” asked Ellen.

“It was painted by an old schoolfriend,” he explained, ignoring Ellen’s question.

He paused and gazed thoughtfully into the painting with the inquisitive expression of the psychiatrist that he was. He appeared to be carefully mulling over his next words, visibly conscious that his explanation so far was no explanation at all.

“We had lost touch a long time ago. Then a few years back he appeared at the clinic with his wife. A poor soul. She has been in and out of the clinic with depression ever since. I’m not sure why he gave me the painting. He said it was his way of thanking me for looking after his wife. But I’m not so sure. It did not seem quite appropriate at the time, and I didn’t want to accept at first. But eventually I agreed because it makes me think of Jack and his wife. Their story. And so it hangs here to remind me not only of them, but of all my patients and the stories they struggle with each day.”

He turned his gaze from the painting to look at Ellen, as if considering her own story. And Ellen could not escape the telling concern in his expression. Fortunately, her growing discomfort was interrupted by the intrusion of his wife.

“Is he trying to persuade you of the deeper significance about that picture?”

Like two synchronised swimmers, Dr Zellweger and Ellen turned their heads to see Marthe enter the room behind them.

“I was simply explaining the provenance of the painting to Mrs Goss,” said Marthe’s husband.

“Urs, why do you still insist on being so formal? I’m sure Ellen would prefer to be addressed by her first name.”

Ellen smiled. But said nothing.

“You forget that Mrs Goss’s husband is still my patient,” Dr Zellweger reminded Marthe. “As long as that remains the case, I think it best that we respect the normal formalities.”

“But that shouldn’t stop her joining us tomorrow,” Marthe insisted.

“Tomorrow?” Ellen asked, and cast a probing look first at Marthe then at her husband.

“Urs has a protégé out in the country and tries to visit on Saturdays whenever possible.”

Dr Zellweger did not enjoy his private affairs being placed on display. The smile on his lips betrayed a slight unease. But his words gave nothing away.

“We will be taking a short drive up into the hills,” he explained, turning to Ellen. “And of course, if you would like to join us tomorrow, Mrs Goss, you would be very welcome.”

Marthe gave Ellen a conspiratorial smile.

“Do you have some sturdy shoes with you?” she asked.

Ellen gave a quizzical shake of the head.

“Never mind. It looks as if we wear the same size, so I can let you have a pair of mine.”

The next morning brought patches of blue to a sky