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

“The perfect day for a trip to the country,” said Marthe, pulling the door of the BMW shut as she climbed into the passenger seat and cast a glance at Ellen behind her.

Driving drove out of the city on that chilly Saturday morning, Ellen was struck by the number of houses that had their windows wide open and bedding draped over the window sills. Even in the depths of winter. They greeted Ellen like welcoming flags, as she rode through the outlying villages and into the rolling forested hills of the Jura. The moment she saw the fields begin to open up around her on either side of the car, Ellen felt her sense of heaviness start to lift. It was as though the city that held Frank somewhere in its oppressive grip had released her for a momentary reprieve.

As if to underscore this feeling of release, Marthe stretched forward to switch on the radio and filled the car with a familiar sound. ‘Lola’ by the Kinks. Ellen sensed an uncontrollable smile unfold across her face. The song put her in mind of Putney Bridge, walking arm in arm with Frank, her head on his shoulder, drinking the sweet smell of his body.

“I love this song,” Marthe grinned over the back of her seat to Ellen, abruptly breaking up those precious memories.

Ellen was taken aback by the glee in her voice. She had seen Marthe as a woman with a taste for Debussy or Mahler. Something classical at least. It seemed to Ellen strangely out of place, this music that conjured images of London life from Muswell Hill to Soho now blaring out over the quiet, sweeping hills that ran along the border with France. It made her feel oddly uncomfortable. But perhaps this came more from the sense of tension she picked up between Marthe and her husband, when Dr Zellweger reached out his right hand and turned down the volume. Ellen could not see the expression on his face, but she felt that it was one of disapproval.

After some twenty minutes and a winding climb into the hills, they turned into the spacious elongated square of a village. Dr Zellweger brought the car to a halt in the centre of the square opposite a long, low-roofed farmhouse. And Ellen sensed a sigh of relief in the driver’s seat when the radio went silent.

The near end of the square, on the left, was dominated by a large three-storey building with late nineteenth-century flair. The words Hotel Jura were emblazoned over the door. Looming over the far end of the square, to their right, stood the gleaming white, neoclassical façade of what was plainly a place of worship. Dropped here amid the forested hills, it seemed oddly out of place and took Ellen by surprise.

Marthe climbed out of the car, exchanging a few words with her husband that Ellen was unable to understand.

“We get out here,” Marthe said. “And take a walk while Urs goes to see his protégé.”

Ellen dutifully followed and closed the car door behind her. Dr Zellweger gave a smile and waved, before motoring off to see his mysterious protégé.

“Would you like to see the basilica first?” Marthe asked and then, without waiting for an answer: “Afterwards we can take a walk over to the next village and maybe have lunch.”

Ellen simply nodded.

“This is a very special place. La Notre Dame de la Pierre,” Marthe said, extending an arm in what seemed a demonstrative expression of pride. “It was built originally to mark a miracle that is supposed to have happened here hundreds of years ago. There’s a beautiful grotto under the church that was carved out of the rockface to mark the spot where it occurred.”

“Who’s this protégé of your husband’s?” Ellen asked. She felt disinclined to go along with Marthe’s attempts to play the travel guide. It irritated her intensely while Frank remained missing somewhere along their sightseeing trail. But she tried not to let it show, and added politely:

“Or would that be an indiscreet question? I have the impression that he doesn’t want to talk about it.”

“In a sense perhaps the protégé is as much a patient as anything else,” said Marthe. “So his silence is probably more a case of professional confidentiality.”

There was a long pause as they continued towards the basilica, before Marthe added:

“Patient is not quite the right word either. A few years ago, Urs worked at a clinic in the east of the country. There was a Yenish boy there called Stefan. And Urs took him under his wing.”

“Yenish?” Ellen gave Marthe a searching look.

“They’re like Roma people. Travellers. There are quite a lot in the east of the country, where Urs comes from. A small town close to Lake Constance. While he was qualifying as a psychiatrist, he gathered a lot of practical experience at a clinic there. That’s where he first met Stefan. He found him extremely subdued and apathetic. Over time, he learned more about the boy’s background. He had apparently been taken into care for some reason that was not clear. It happened with a lot of Yenish children at the time. Still does occasionally. I don’t know the full story. But Urs says the family where he was placed treated him very badly. They worked him extremely hard. And like any boy in that kind of situation, Stefan rebelled. He became difficult to handle. So the family complained, and he was admitted to the clinic for what they called conduct disorder.

“The more he came into contact with Stefan, the more he realised that the boy probably had no place in the clinic at all. He also suspected that his colleagues were using Stefan and other patients to test a new drug. But he was a junior and had no access to any evidence. Later on, Urs moved to the clinic here. But he never forgot Stefan, and often returned at weekends to visit him.