Книга - Sorry

Sorry
Shaun Whiteside

Zoran Drvenkar


Berlin. Four friends. One extreme idea.One of the most gripping thrillers ever written.Kris, Tamara,Wolf and Frauke set up an agency called Sorry. An agency to right wrongs. Unfair dismissals, the wrongly accused: everyone has a price, and Sorry will find out what it is. It’s as simple as that.What they hadn’t counted on was their next client being a cold-hearted killer. But who is the killer and why has he killed? Someone is mocking them and hell is only just beginning.




















About the Book (#ulink_68819784-97bf-53fe-bab7-6f9d75436d78)


Berlin. Four friends. One extreme idea.

Kris, Tamara,Wolf and Frauke set up an agency called Sorry. An agency to right wrongs. Unfair dismissals, the wrongly accused: everyone has a price, and Sorry will find out what it is. It’s as simple as that.

What they hadn’t counted on was their next client being a cold-hearted killer. But who is the killer and why has he killed? Someone is mocking them and hell is only just beginning.









‘Sorry is the kind of thriller, the kind of novel, that doesn’t come along every day … It’s that oft-cited but very rare species of novel we call a page-turner, and it brilliantly achieves this because Drvenkar knows how to use all the tools at his disposal, to excellent effect’

New York Times

‘For those with quick minds and strong stomachs, Sorry is an impressive début’

The Times

‘A cleverly plotted, switchback read’

Guardian

‘This thriller breaks with all conventions, topping all expectations … Fast paced and in deadly good style. A joy to read, a piece of art’

Die Welt

‘It’s the kind of book for a Friday evening, with the rest of the weekend free, because not much else will be able to compete for your attention’

wordswithoutborders.org

‘A brilliant story that’s as gruesome as it is philosophical’

Easy Living

‘Shocking, compelling, disturbing … there are many apologies in Sorry, but lovers of the dark side will have no regrets’

Michael Robotham, author of Shatter

‘It’s rare that a book in the crime fiction genre can break all the writing conventions and yet keep you on the edge of your seat until the bitter end … Drvenkar breaks the mould with Sorry … A master of his craft’

Courier Mail, Australia

‘This is what thrillers should be about. Taut, tense and terrific, Sorry is a cracking read’

Sean Black, author of Gridlock

‘This highly original, dark and sinister thriller breaks all the rules … it delivers something thrillingly different’

lovereading.co.uk

‘You need to be prepared and ready to read Sorry. Ready for the brave experiment in writing not seen before in this genre, and ready for an extraordinary plot’

Berliner Zeitung

‘One of the best German language thrillers ever. And certainly the most original in years’

Krimi-couch.de

‘Drvenkar is good at social networks – we believe in his characters and how they relate to one another’

TLS

‘This is a very clever, dark read … Drvenkar [is] a writer to watch’

Booklist

‘A challenging, insightful thriller … Drvenkar adroitly keeps the reader in the dark as he unravels a horrific story of child sexual abuse, savage revenge, and retribution’

Publisher’s Weekly




About the Author (#ulink_481818f5-fe0f-55c8-ac16-b3ea2cff36b7)


Zoran Drvenkar was born in Croatia in 1967 and moved to Germany when he was three years old. He has been working as a writer since 1989. He is the author of many prize-winning books for children and young adults. His new adult thriller, Du (You), has just been published in Germany and will be published by Knopf and Blue Door in 2013.


For all the very good, dead friends.I miss you.


A good apology is like a farewell,when you know you won’t see each other again.


Table of Contents

Title Page (#u500fc3a0-a10c-51b5-9c77-8265e9c2e48d)

About the Book (#uada0395c-e101-5b21-bf50-304a8ea1dfe4)

About the Author (#uec1f04c8-640b-5c2b-80ad-563e76ed8cb2)

Dedication (#u9007b074-7821-5fcd-8902-263fc725fbbf)

In Between (#u82eb6989-1a60-56a1-9ba4-6e27060d3947)

Part I (#uf33fc320-0c1d-5e82-8504-395b2fe0bdba)

After (#u2117c506-27fa-5265-ad92-db6c14579767)

Before (#ub47a635f-24e3-5c52-b691-b7c675f8b135)

Part II (#u1e38072d-2db1-500a-978d-76e56234641c)

After (#u169fcb3f-c458-5ba5-9922-53b4db0a6614)

Before (#u5857eabc-cee6-58ea-a0e7-22419dd30db4)

Part III (#u62d64466-8246-520b-9d1e-fff8aa0e8c0b)

After (#uc9784ba5-73aa-5fea-9ff4-4f42f21158a4)

Before (#uf2f3cb09-9e9f-57fc-9246-dc15961b00c2)

Part IV (#uf1e705b0-7cee-5e34-971a-c481fce06313)

After (#u231378ff-f999-5cde-b8c2-c6b47e063ccd)

Before (#u6e0c3e92-861d-5fcd-aaac-3f35c26c22f4)

Part V (#ub8daded8-7e98-5ad2-8ded-3d82920bd13c)

After (#ub048a8a3-d3b4-5466-ad41-b192f7a12bf0)

Before (#u83dde12d-7531-5105-a7fc-ed5ffc086761)

Part VI (#u532c3c4e-6997-5c4e-9554-02d76ad856aa)

After (#u4e735740-8abd-5ddc-849c-6ead27626d66)

Before (#uae5fe387-dc7c-5601-b757-60c2c53ec08a)

Part VII (#u9b53ec29-7e64-5cee-b3b6-d60b586cacc3)

After (#u339e3df6-ab84-5fab-a30b-40c4cd9f3a75)

Before (#u8c4b8363-b0aa-58da-83e9-ca784eb493dc)

Part VIII (#u97b27e58-65d5-595a-b8f8-98bb4162acf2)

After (#ufc841d59-a875-5dcf-ae34-65b6714ef68c)

Before (#u6c45bfd6-ba14-5889-8202-94573b6ee65c)

After (#uc2e5ed0c-195a-5075-98d3-6d57bfdb6b22)

My Thanks To (#uf3ad9965-915d-5bd3-8550-9873efedb291)

A Note About The Translator (#u92133f2c-783b-5efc-a8b8-12249a1909e0)

A conversation with Zoran Drvenkar (#u6ffa4288-5410-5df1-8351-f0ab0c61f1e4)

Copyright (#u75bfb1ae-e045-561e-910c-3e9ee72f0dfd)

About the Publisher (#u65507c8a-8667-5c1b-b328-98cd9ac0978c)




In Between (#ulink_ea6aa746-da30-5718-9b27-65b755b31d35)

YOU


YOU’RE SURPRISED how easy it is to track her down. You’ve been hiding in such a deep hole that you thought nothing was possible any more. You lost yourself more and more, and when you thought you’d never see light again, his other address book fell into your hands. He had two; you didn’t know that either. There was so much you didn’t know about him.

One address book is bound in leather, the other is an octavo notebook like the ones you had in school. You happened to find the octavo notebook among a stack of magazines on his bedside table. It’s full of names. You counted them. Forty-six. You’re still filled with longing when you see his handwriting. Sloping to the right, with the despair of the left-handed. Your fingers wandered over names, addresses, and phone numbers as if you could sense what he felt as he was writing them down. Two of the names are underlined; they are the only names you know.

The day you found the octavo notebook, light entered your darkness. The names are the signs you were waiting for. Six months of waiting, and then this light. And how could you have known that sometimes one must search for a sign?

No one told you.

One of the two addresses is no longer valid, but that’s not a problem for you. You’re experienced in tracking people down. Our system works chiefly through information, and these days nothing is easier to get hold of. It took you two minutes. His wife moved to Kleinmachnow. On the map you find out that her new home is exactly three kilometers south of the old one as the crow flies. The new block is very much like the other one. We are creatures of habit. When we turn around we want to know what lies behind us. You wait patiently until one of the tenants leaves the building, then you climb to the third floor and ring.

“Yes, who is it?”

She’s in her late forties and looks as if the last few years have been a long, tough journey that she had to travel on her own. It doesn’t matter what she looks like, you’d have recognized her anywhere. Her posture, her voice. You’re surprised that you’ve internalized her gestures. You have never had a relationship with this woman, but everything about her is familiar to you. The way she leans forward when she looks at you, the narrowing of her eyes, her quizzical expression. Every detail has burned itself so deeply into you that it’s more than just memory.

“Hello,” you say.

She hesitates for a moment. She isn’t sure whether you’re a threat. You’d like to ask her what kind of threat turns up in broad daylight outside a block in Kleinmachnow and smiles.

“Do we know each other?”

Suddenly there’s interest in her eyes. You aren’t surprised. She’s a curious person; even if she can’t place you, she doesn’t show a trace of suspicion. The most dangerous people aren’t suspicious, they’re interested. You know that expression. As a child you studied an accident on the highway. All that blood, the broken glass, firemen running around, flames and oily black smoke. Every time you drove past the place of the accident with your parents afterward you felt that same excitement.

This is where it happened. Can you still spot anything? Is it all gone?

She looks at you the same way.

“We know each other from before,” you say and hand her the photograph. “I just wanted to say hello.”

You know that as soon as she sees the photograph she’s going to be filled with panic. Perhaps she’ll shut the door. She’ll probably deny it.

She surprises you, as she has always surprised you. She’s good at surprises, because she’s unpredictable.

“It’s you!”

A moment later she opens her arms and gives you a warm, safe hug.

In the apartment she explains that her husband will be back around six—there’s more than enough time. You know she’s divorced, and her ex lives near Bornholm. It’s good that she’s pretending to trust you. Any insecurity is good.

You sit down in the living room. From where you’re sitting you can look out at the balcony. A table, no chairs. Beside the table a sculpture. A boy lowering his head, hands clasped in prayer. You’ve noticed sculptures like that at the hardware store. Some of them hold books, others have wings on their backs. You look quickly away, you feel dazzled, although the sun shines down pale and weary today.

“Would you like something to drink?”

She brings you a glass of mineral water and sets it down on the coffee table next to the photograph. Two boys on a bicycle. They’re grinning, they’re so young that it hurts.

“I didn’t think I’d ever see you again,” she says and leans forward to brush a strand of hair from your forehead. Intimate. Close. You don’t flinch. Your self-control is perfect.

“Did you miss me?” she wants to know.

I’ve dreamed about you at night, you want to reply, but you’re not sure whether that’s the truth. There are dreams and there’s reality, and you wander back and forth between them, struggling to keep them apart.

She smiles at you. Now there isn’t just curiosity in her expression, there’s also a trace of desire. You force yourself not to look at the sculpture, you force yourself to return her smile. At the same time something in you tears. As silently as a cobweb. Her desire is too much for you. And you thought you had self-control. And you thought you could do that.

“I need to use the bathroom.”

“Hey, come on, you’re not ashamed of me, are you?” she asks.

Your face is red, your fists clenched under the table. Shame.

“Second on the left,” she says, tapping your knee. “Hurry up, or I’ll have to come and get you.”

She winks at you, lascivious and playful. I’m not nine years old any more! you want to yell at her, but there’s only a cold stiffness in you, and that stiffness lets nothing through. You stand up and walk into the corridor. You open the second door on the left and shut it behind you. In front of the mirror you look up, but your eyes avoid you. It hurts, it hurts again every time. You hope it will be different one day, and that hope holds you upright and eases the pain.

It’ll soon be over.

You kneel on the tiled floor and lift the lid of the toilet. You’re quiet, no coughing, no groaning, just the sound of a splash. When nothing more comes you take the toothbrush from the toothpaste cup and shove it into your throat to be sure that your belly really is empty. Then you wash your hands and rinse out your mouth. Before you leave the bathroom, you put the toothbrush back and, with some toilet paper, carefully wipe clean all the surfaces you have touched.

Soon.

She’s still sitting in the armchair smoking—arm bent at the elbow, head tilted slightly back when she lets smoke escape from her mouth. Even that gesture is so familiar to you that the memories overlay one another like a handful of slides. Back then and today become now, and now becomes today and back then. She holds the photograph in her hand and studies it. When you are standing behind her, she turns her head and her eyes flash. You aim the gas at that flash until the can is empty and she is lying on the floor in a whimpering heap. Then you start removing any trace of yourself from the room. You drain the glass and put it in your pocket. The photograph has fallen from her hand. You pick it up and put it in your pocket. You are careful, you are precise, you know what you are doing. When she tries to creep away, you turn her on to her back and sit down on her chest. Her arms are trapped beneath you, her eyes are swollen. She rears, her knees come up, her heels drum on the carpet. You put one hand firmly over her mouth, and with the other you hold her snot-streaming nose closed. It all goes quickly.

You make a package out of her. You press her thighs to her chest and shove her arms behind her knees. She’s not very big. You’ve thought of everything. Ten days of planning was enough. She fits in one of these black 120-liter trash bags. You carry her out of the flat. On the stairs you meet an old man. You nod at him, he nods back. It’s as easy as taking out the garbage.

It’s late by the time she wakes up.

You were a bit disappointed when you first stepped into the apartment. It was dirty and deserted, it was nothing like what it had been. You had expected more. Places with a past like that shouldn’t be deserted. It’s disrespectful. People make pilgrimages to Dachau and Auschwitz, they look at the concentration camps as if they could read something from them, while a few yards from their homes a new form of horror is taking place and they aren’t even aware of it.

It was very hard to find the right photomural. You drove all over Berlin, and it was only after the fifth specialty store when you described to one of the clerks exactly what you were looking for that he went to the storeroom and came back with several rolls.

To your surprise he let you have them all for nothing.

“No one buys this kind of crap these days” were his exact words.

Sometimes you wonder if you aren’t exaggerating the details. Then you give yourself the only logical answer. This is all about memory. It’s about details. Details are important to you. You prize details.

The wall is still wet with glue. At the spot where the metal ring used to be, there’s now a hole in the wall. Before you glued the photomural over the hole you had to stick your index finger into it. You marked the spot: the X is exactly at eye level.

The left shoe falls from her foot when you press her against the wall. As you do you get so close to her that you feel ill. Her unconscious body is soft, and it’s hard to keep it vertical. Your strength calms you down. You’re chest to chest. Her breath smells like cold smoke. You lift her arms up, her feet part a few inches from the floor, you swing the hammer back and strike.

The nail easily penetrates the palms of her hands, placed one over the other. Three blows are enough and the head of the nail is all that sticks out from her wrists. The third blow wakes her, your eyes are level now and she screams into your face. The scream fizzles out in a dull tap against the insulating tape you’ve stuck over her mouth. You look at each other, you will never be as close to her again. She twitches, tries to kick; your body presses her against the wall, holds her in position. Panic and contentment and strength. Strength, every time. Tears shoot from her swollen eyes and hit your face. You’ve seen enough and step back. Her weight pulls her down. The surprised expression. Something jerks. The pain makes her tremble, a shudder runs through her body, her bladder empties. The nail holds. She hangs on the wall with arms stretched upwards. Her right shoe falls with a quiet click, her toes scrape over the floor in search of purchase. If looks could kill, you’d be long dead.

It’s time to part. You show her where to look. She tries to turn her head. You knew she would do that. It fits. So you walk over to her and place the second nail on her forehead. It’s bigger, sixteen inches long, and has a special name that you don’t remember. The man in the hardware store told you it twice and you nodded and said thank you. She freezes as the tip touches her skin. Her eyes speak to you. They say you won’t do it. They order you not to. You shake your head. Then she closes her eyes tight shut. You’re surprised, you expected more resistance. You expected her to kick out at you again, to defend herself.

She gives up.

Your lips touch her ear and you whisper:

“It wasn’t me.”

She opens her eyes wide. And there’s the look, and there’s the understanding.

Now.

You drive the nail through the bone of her forehead. It takes you four more blows than the hands did, before the nail pierces the back of her head and enters the wall. She twitches, her twitch becomes a quiver, then she hangs still. Bright blood trickles from the ear you whispered into; a dark thread of blood emerges from the wound in her forehead and wanders between her eyes over the base of her nose and her cheek. You wait and study the elegance with which the thread of blood moves over her face. Before it reaches the insulating tape, you pull it from her mouth. Spittle seeps over her lips and mixes with the blood. Her right eye closes, as if it’s weary. You open it again, it stays open. You follow her frozen gaze. It’s fine, you don’t have to correct anything, everything is right.



PART I (#ulink_30525606-cd2d-57bd-be0d-eb5ca64c9e0a)




After (#ulink_58694110-a09a-5232-8978-4a0274a5f8d6)


IN THE DARKNESS of your thoughts I would like to be a light.

I have no idea who wrote that. I just remember the piece of paper that was pinned up on the kitchen wall one day.

In the darkness of your thoughts …

I want someone to come out of the forest with a flashlight and aim the beam at my face. Being seen can be so important. It doesn’t matter by whom. I’m disappearing into myself more and more.

It’s the day after. My hand rests on the cold metal of the fender. I listen as if my fingertips could hear the vibrations. I need more time, I’m not yet able to open the trunk. Perhaps another hundred kilometers, maybe a thousand.

… I would like to be a light.

I get in and start the engine. If someone should ever follow my journey, he’ll get lost in its incoherence. I’m moving through Germany like a lab rat in a maze. I lurch and every step is uncertain. I step sideways, turn in circles. But whatever I do, I don’t stand still. Standing still is out of the question. Sixteen hours are bundled together into sixteen minutes when you travel aimlessly. The boundaries of your own perception start to fray, and everything seems meaningless. Even sleep loses its significance. I wish there were a light in the darkness of my thoughts. But there is no light. So I’m left with nothing but my thoughts.





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