The Fear Index

down to his knees. For a ghastly moment he thought it was his flesh and he said quickly, ‘ Ja, ja , okay. I’ll do it.’ The whole situation was so bizarre it seemed to be playing out at one remove from reality, to be happening to someone else. He quickly shrugged the coat off his left shoulder and then his right. There was hardly enough room for him to get his arms out of the sleeves and for a time it was stuck across his back and he had to struggle with it as if escaping from a straitjacket.
    He tried to think of something to say, to establish contact with his attacker, to shift this encounter on to a different and less lethal plane. He said, ‘You are German?’ and when the man didn’t respond, he struggled to remember what little of the language he had picked up at CERN: ‘ Sie sind Deutscher? ’ There was no answer.
    At last he had the ruined coat off. He let it drop around his feet. He slipped off his jacket and held it out to his captor, who gestured with his knife that he should throw it on to the bathroom floor. He started to unbutton his shirt. He would carry on removing his clothes until he was naked if necessary, but if the man tried to tie him up he resolved that he would fight – yes, then he would put up a struggle. He would rather die than be rendered completely helpless.
    ‘Why are you doing this?’ he asked.
    The man frowned at him as if he were a slightly baffling child and replied in English: ‘Because you invited me.’
    Hoffmann stared at him, aghast. ‘I didn’t invite you to do this.’
    The knife was flourished again. ‘Continue, please.’
    ‘Listen, this is not right …’
    Hoffmann finished unbuttoning his shirt and let it fall on top of his jacket. He was thinking hard now, evaluating risks and chances. He grasped the bottom of his T-shirt and pulled it up over his head, and when his face emerged and he saw his attacker’s hungry eyes he felt his flesh crawl. But here was weakness, he recognised: here was opportunity. Somehow he forced himself to make a ball of the white cotton and to offer it to him. ‘Here,’ he said, and when the man reached out to take it he slightly adjusted his feet against the back of the bathtub so as to brace himself. He leaned forward encouragingly – ‘Here you are’ – and then launched himself at him.
    He landed on his assailant with sufficient force to knock him backwards, the knife went flying, and together they sank down so entwined it was impossible for either man to land a blow. In any case all Hoffmann wanted was to escape the horrible claustrophobia of that squalid bathroom. He tried to haul himself up on to his feet, grabbing at the sink with one hand and the light cord with the other, but both seemed to come away at once. The room went dark and he felt something round his ankle dragging him down again. He hacked at it with his other heel and stamped on it and the man howled with pain. He fumbled in the darkness for the door handle, at the same time lashing out with his feet. He was connecting with bone now – that ponytailed skull, he hoped. Kick a man when he’s down, he thought savagely, then kick him and kick him and kick him. His target whimpered and shrank into a foetal ball. When he no longer seemed a threat, Hoffmann pulled open the bathroom door and staggered into the bedroom.
    He sat down heavily on the wooden chair. He put his head between his knees and was immediately sick. Despite the heat of the room, he was shivering with cold. He needed to get his clothes. He returned cautiously to the bathroom and pushed at the door. He heard a scuffling noise inside. The man had crawled towards the lavatory bowl. He was blocking the door. Hoffmann gave it a shove and the man groaned and dragged his body out of the way. Hoffmann stepped over him and retrieved his clothes and also the knife. He went back into the bedroom and quickly dressed. You invited me , he thought furiously – what did he mean, he had invited him? He checked his mobile phone but there was still no signal.
    In the bathroom the man had his head over the lavatory. He looked up as Hoffmann came in. Hoffmann, pointing the knife, gazed down at him without pity.
    ‘What is your name?’ he said.
    The man turned his face away and spat blood. Hoffmann warily came closer, squatted on his haunches and scrutinised him from a distance of half a metre. He was about sixty, although it was hard to tell with all the blood on his face; he had a cut above his eye.