Bunker Read Free

it open a little longer, I’m getting used to the brightness. Where am I? Am I alone? I don’t feel the hand in my hair any more. I’m lying on my side, hands still tied behind my back. My coat over me. On the fitted carpet with my back to the wall, in the corridor between the office door and the staff toilets. How is the coat arranged, where are the coat pockets? On the inside. He’s put the coat over me lining side out. I try to get hold of the fabric with my fingers. Grope around as well as I can with my hands tied behind my back. My arms hurt, my hands feel as if they’ve gone to sleep. I have to wiggle my fingers for a little while to bring them back to life before they’ll obey me. Somehow or other I manage to wedge the fabric between my fingers. I feel the edge of the coat pocket. Get hold of the inside-out edge of the fabric. Pull it towards me, little by little. The fabric slips out of my fingers. Shit! I try again. Once, twice. My pocket-knife is in there. I manage to get my fingers inside the pocket. I feel the cold metal. I must shake the knife out of the pocket. Somehow or other I must shake that damn knife out of my coat pocket. I’ve no idea how I’m going to do it, but I try. Again and again and again. Until I manage to get the knife wedged between my forefinger and middle finger. Slowly pull it out of the pocket. My fingers get stuck atthe fabric edge of the coat pocket; I press them more tightly around the handle of the knife. The pressure makes it slip out of my fingers again, back into the coat pocket. Bloody hell.
    I hear sounds, footsteps coming closer, very close. I close my eyes, pretend I’m asleep. He’s standing right in front of me. I don’t need to open my eyes, I know who’s standing there. The toe of one shoe is pushed under my face, turns my head suddenly from lying sideways to facing up. My heart is thudding. My breath stays steady. Slowly, I open my right eye. I try to look at him. The light is behind him, so I see only his outline. His body looks massive. He has very short hair. Have I ever seen him before? Does he look familiar to me? A customer? Damn it, I can’t remember.
    â€˜The key!’

Police cars, fire service vehicles, engines running, blue lights, noise, the narrow path through the forest is jam-packed with them. One after another, no way of getting through.
    The forest is full of flashing light.
    Outside the mill, the compressor roaring, thick cables running over to the house. Two large searchlights set up outside the metal door, lighting up the entrance to the mill. Unnaturally glaring light, the whole scene is improbable, like something on stage in a theatre. The area outside is brightly illuminated too. The old wooden door lying on the darkly gleaming swampy ground; the bushes along the path cast harsh shadows.

I got up early, packed my things, and now I’m on my way. There’s no one else around yet. The newsreader on the car radio is talking about rioting and violence between neo-Nazis and police outside an immigrants’ hostel in Hoyerswerda. I switch the thing off.
    Mist lies above the forest. It is early morning, the mist is beginning to drift apart and dissolve until it’s all disappeared. The ground is still moist with dew. The air smells of wet earth. I like it. I’ve wound the window down a little way, I can feel the airflow as I drive, I smell the forest.
    Pine trees grow close together all the way up to the side of the road. The road divides the forest, cutting it in two. The tarmac is still wet in many places, the road surface looks dark, almost black.
    Just before the sharp right bend I take my foot off the accelerator and turn left into the cart-track, reducing my speed. The place is hard to find. I drive on along the unmade track, reducing speed again. I continue almost at walking pace over gravel, avoiding the potholes left by the last heavy rain. The path gets narrower and narrower; the