The Ninth circle

6th October

When I look at what I last wrote in this journal — when I read of my first discovery of the murderous, Hell-bound Keeper, Antaeus — it’s hard to believe that was really only three nights ago now. I feel I must have been a different person altogether when I made my last entry, for I didn’t know anything then. At least now some of the secrets are no longer secrets.

The first thing was that I saw the mystery woman again. Or rather, a child did. Yesterday, still very early, I was troubled by what I had learned about Antaeus and decided to go to St Stephen’s Basilica again before it became more crowded. Spiritual places and holy buildings have always calmed me in the past, but not this time.

The morning was cool and still. Soft, white-gold light tinted the sky and a gentle breeze blew through the air. But as I approached the church, all I could think of was my dream of the Nazi invasion. The fear and the shouts and the sobbing and the fires. Some of the Jews never even left Budapest: they were just shot and thrown into the Danube. The blood of children, grandparents, wives, fathers and mothers running through the river, forever staining the city with a shame that would surely never come out. Was that really only sixty years ago?

The Basilica didn’t open until nine o’clock so, when I reached it, I sat on the edge of one of the fountains to the left, where I could sit and look up at it while I waited. It was cool at this time of the morning, with an early, dew-laden freshness that was more befitting the vast countryside than the inner circles of a capital city. A few pigeons fluttered about at my feet, cooing softly to each other in the great shadow of the cathedral, and the hush of early morning settled softly like a smooth, cold blanket.

I had not been there for very long when I felt a hand tugging insistently at my sleeve. Glancing down, I saw a boy stood before me, no more than six or seven. His head was bald and about his face and in his eyes there was that pinched look of illness. He was dying. Leukaemia, perhaps. A quick glance across the square showed me that a couple about my age were a few yards away, lost in fierce argument in front of the Basilica, and I guessed that these were his parents and, in their distraction, they had not noticed their boy wandering over to me.

I felt guilty as I looked at him. Why should I get to live so much longer than him? What had I done to deserve it? What was health to me? It was this terrible, disgraceful waste and I felt a bleak shame as I looked at him. I wished that I could take the illness out of his body and into my own. I would have done it if I could.

‘She’s still lost,’ the boy said, one hand still grasping my sleeve as he gazed up at me. ‘Can you help her?’

I gazed down at him in alarm, my mind at once filled with thoughts of the mystery woman. ‘Who?’ I asked hoarsely.

‘The lady. She left when she saw you coming. She said the Ninth Circle took it all from you and now you can’t help her. Can’t you? She’s scared, you know. She’s really frightened. Isn’t there anything you can do about it?’

You’ve known your share of fear, haven’t you, little boy? I am sorry for that.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the boy’s mother suddenly glance around in panic and then, spotting her son, she and his father started walking towards us with relief. Quickly, I pulled the torn photo from my pocket.

‘Was this the woman you saw?’

The child took a look and then nodded. ‘Can you help her?’

My answer seemed to mean a lot to him somehow so I just nodded in silence as his mother came up and took him by the hand.

‘I told you not to wander off, Stephen. I’m sorry, sir, I hope he wasn’t bothering you.’

I smiled at the couple, trying not to let raw, painful pity show on my face as I assured them that the child hadn’t bothered me. Part of me wanted to run after the family, as they walked away, and get the child to tell me all he knew of the mystery woman; what exactly she had said to him and in which direction she had gone. But I didn’t want to frighten them, and I especially didn’t want to frighten the little boy. I watched him walk out of sight, standing between his parents as they each took one of his hands. When he died… there would be this huge hole left in their lives. Would they ever be able to fill it? Would they ever be able to pretend it wasn’t there for long enough to be happy? My disappearance must have left such a hole in the lives of my own family. I wondered if they missed me as much as I missed them.

When the family had disappeared from view, I found it easier to rid my thoughts of them and turn my mind back to the mystery woman. How strange that she should have mentioned the Ninth Circle. She surely couldn’t have been referring to Dante’s Ninth Circle of Hell. She said the Ninth Circle took it all from you… The Ninth Circle.. My mind raced with the possibilities. Could the Ninth Circle be some kind of organisation? Or was it a place? Had something dreadful happened there, causing me to lose my memory?

Could the Ninth Circle be a person or a code name or a book or a thing? A valuable possession, perhaps, that I had stolen and sold, hence the large amount of money hidden under the floorboards of my apartment? Had the child simply been making it all up? Was he a compulsive liar with an attention-seeking problem? But then he would hardly need to be a liar to get attention, would he? That’s the grand thing about dying: you can have all the attention you want. No, I’m sure he really did see her. And, in the light of what I have since found out, that in itself is extraordinary.

I waited until the Basilica opened and then climbed the steps to the top of the dome again. I was the only one up there and had the whole place to myself. For at least an hour, I just stood and gazed at the city, feeling safe and protected in a way I never felt when on the ground. Everything seemed so beautiful from that height. It was only at closer range that you could see the filth and the muck, but from the dome, everything was golden and dripping with clear sunlight. The cathedral was solid and safe at my back and beneath my feet, and I felt that, if only I could live here in this tower, everything would be okay. Everything would be fine and my existence would be bearable if I could just stay up here. Usually I enjoy human companionship.. but sometimes, peoples’ eyes seem to burn into me and their very presence is painful, like acid on my skin. And all I want is to be alone.

I returned to my apartment in the afternoon, earlier than usual. I’d hoped that the visit to St Stephen’s Basilica would lift my spirits but, if anything, the outing had only intensified my feelings of foreboding. The encounter with the dying child, and the news of the mystery woman in particular, had served to unsettle me even further.

But I wasn’t prepared for what I found at home. I was not prepared for the sickening wrench of betrayal that wracked me upon the discovery. The bitterness of it cramped my whole body with pain and for long moments I simply stared at the photo, shaking with shock.

Like the photo of the mystery woman, this one had also been concealed within a package. This time the order was for a case of French wine and when I phoned the supplier I found once again that I had placed the order myself some months ago. There was nothing in the case to give any clue as to where I had been living at the time — the only address was my current Hungarian one on the label. So I unpacked it and proceeded to stack the wine according to vintage on the wine rack in my cupboard. As I took out the last bottle, a photo that had been concealed at the bottom beneath the bottles was pulled out, fluttering to the floor.

The photo was of Stephomi and I talking in a hotel room. We stood facing each other before large bay windows, a city visible through the glass behind us. And there, rising above the other buildings, was the clear outline of the Eiffel Tower, tall and majestic, piercing the sky with its tip.

I couldn’t remember ever being in a hotel room with Stephomi. I couldn’t remember ever being in Paris. I’d always assumed that our first meeting had occurred a few weeks ago, beside Michael’s church on Margaret’s Island in the middle of the Danube. But the awful truth in all its hideous and grotesque reality was that Stephomi and I already knew each other, before we ever met again in Budapest. Stephomi knew who I was, yet had given no indication of having seen me before in his life. On coming across me on Margaret’s Island, he must have guessed or somehow already known about my amnesia. Perhaps our meeting had not been an accident at all.

How could he not have told me? How could he have so brazenly and coldly lied to me like that? How could he? It didn’t make any fucking sense! At our last meeting I had even admitted to him that I had amnesia and didn’t know what to do. He could have helped me then if he’d wanted to. He was using me. Somehow, in those moments, I was sure of it. Just as sure as I was that he was bloody well going to answer to me for what he’d done. I wasn’t going to take one more lie from him.

I phoned Stephomi and asked him to meet me that evening. A painful anger had replaced the initial hurt and now all I could think of was getting the truth from the treacherous bastard. My hand shook on the telephone receiver and I was astounded by how normal, relaxed and friendly my voice sounded when Stephomi answered his phone and I invited him over to share a bottle of wine with me that evening.

In the hours before he arrived, I examined the photo very carefully, trying to get as much information from it as possible. I couldn’t tell which hotel it was since the room was of a standard type and seemed to have no distinguishing features. I could see no personal possessions or baggage and couldn’t even tell if the room was mine or Stephomi’s. He looked much the same as I had always seen him: calm, at ease — one hand in his trousers pocket, the other being waved before him as he spoke. But yet there was something different. Something I had not seen in him before. Was it my imagination or was he speaking with a hint of… a hint of… gravity? Vehemence? An uncharacteristic seriousness, perhaps? Although there was that omnipresent smile lingering about his mouth still.

But it was my own face and posture that alarmed me more. I was staring at Stephomi coldly and I looked… wary. Stiff. This was no relaxed and amiable friendly chat. My heart sank as I came to these conclusions. Why hadn’t he told me the truth? What did he want? I was not cheered when I turned the photo over and discovered that this one, too, had writing on the back:

‘ Always forgive your enemies — but never forget their names.’

Robert Kennedy.

And for the first time, it occurred to me that whoever was getting these notes and photos to me might be an unseen friend rather than a taunting enemy. That they might be trying to warn me of some unseen danger. But the two photos had come from different countries altogether. Could someone really have travelled from Italy to France to post the clues, to ensure I could not trace them? And why not send everything together? And why did everything have to be so fucking cryptic, damn it? Why not come to me themselves with what they knew? Because they physically couldn’t? Because they feared to?

I stifled the urge to start smashing things up in frustration. What a total bloody mess this was! Well, I’d get some answers from Stephomi, that was for sure. As for the letter sender — for now I could only assume that I had a nameless friend out there somewhere. A friend who, from the quote, also seemed to know that I was suffering from amnesia.

I decided before Stephomi arrived that I wasn’t going to hurt him. I wouldn’t act in a savage, uncivilised manner. I would just confront him with the photo and see what he had to say for himself. After all, it wasn’t as if he could deny it. He’d have no choice but to tell me the truth. But when I opened the door to him that evening and he walked in to my home, greeting me easily, carrying an expensive bottle of wine… it was like having salt rubbed into a raw wound. I’d trusted him and he’d done nothing but lie to my face since we met. I felt like some jilted lover who couldn’t help but fly into a passion, words being totally inadequate to express just how furious they were. He had made a fool of me, and I had let him.

Once he’d walked into my apartment, I slowly closed the door, softly drew the bolts across while he prattled on about something behind me. Then I slowly turned around… and hit him really hard across the back of the head. I don’t agree with violence but it was incredibly gratifying to force him to the floor, place my knee in the small of his back and twist his arm behind him in a grip that would break the bone if he tried to resist — all before he’d even had time to utter more than a startled yelp. I had him. It didn’t matter which of us was the stronger now that I had him like this: he only needed to move a little to snap one of the bones in his arm. The bottle he’d been holding had fallen to the floor in the scuffle, and broken glass was floating in the spreading pool of red wine, staining his expensive white shirt as I held him to the floor.

‘ Why did you do it? ’ I hissed. ‘Answer me, answer me, answer me!’

His other hand was pinned beneath him and, although I felt him shift slightly, he was quite unable to free himself — not without breaking his arm, anyway. I heard him make this strange little sound, somewhere between a laugh and a groan. ‘Perhaps…’ he gasped, his voice muffled from where his face was pressed into the floor, ‘if I knew the question, Gabriel…’

I broke his arm then, in my mind. Revelled in the sound of the crack, as the bone snapped, and the scream of pain that came with it. Oh, I wanted to do it in real life, I wanted to. But I stopped myself. You see, I am the one who is in control here, not him. Not him!

‘You knew me before I lost my memory!’ I growled. ‘If you dare deny it, I’ll break your arm right now, I swear it. You get one warning, that’s it.’

‘Well, yes, I did know you before, you’re right.’

I gaped at the back of his head in amazement.

‘Aren’t you going to deny it?’

‘You just told me not to.’

‘Do you think this is a game?’ I shouted, forgetting myself and twisting his arm a little further, noting the harsh intake of breath with a grim satisfaction. ‘Why didn’t you tell me the truth from the beginning?’

‘Because… because you asked me not to,’ Stephomi gasped. ‘For God’s sake, Gabriel, let go of my arm before you really do fucking break it! You’re making a mistake! I’ve never been anything but a friend to you!’

I hesitated. He’d spoken so earnestly that the first doubtful butterflies began to flutter uncertainly inside me.

‘I’ll happily explain it to you if you’ll just let me go,’ Stephomi offered stiffly. Reluctantly, I released my hold on his arm and slowly got to my feet. With a sigh, Stephomi did the same and turned to face me.

‘Well, I never liked this shirt anyway,’ he said, a smile twisting his mouth as he glanced down at the dusky red wine staining his shirt, dripping like blood from his sleeve cuff and the tips of his fingers. The hand that had been pinned beneath him was bleeding and I could see small pieces of the broken bottle embedded in his palm. The same feeling of revulsion rose up in me as on the day of the rare steak incident — I could feel the bile rising in my throat and averted my gaze hurriedly. There were even a few flecks of wine down one side of his face and in his hair. He was gazing at the remains of the bottle sadly and, when he glanced up at me, there was a reproachful look in his eye. ‘Really, Gabriel, was all that necessary? If you wanted to know something, you only had to ask. I, er… admit I haven’t been completely truthful,’ he said frankly. ‘The fact is that I have known you for years. I followed you that day to Margaret’s Island and the second time to Heroes’ Square. I just wanted to make sure you were all right, that’s all.’

‘How very altruistic of you! Now can you please explain to me why you’ve been acting like a compulsive liar?’

‘Well, let’s not get carried away,’ Stephomi replied, looking mildly amused. He moved his hand to brush his wine-dampened hair from his eyes, and winced. Holding up his palm, he examined the shards of glass embedded in the skin. With a sigh, he let his hand drop back down to his side and glanced up to meet my uncertain gaze.

‘Look, the truth is you didn’t want me to tell you about your past. You made me promise that I wouldn’t. I’m not even supposed to be here.’

‘That’s ridiculous!’ I snapped. ‘I don’t believe a word of it! Just tell me the fucking truth! Is Gabriel Antaeus even my real name?’

Stephomi hesitated a moment and then nodded. ‘Yes, it is.’

‘And how did we know each other before?’

‘I told you, we were friends.’

‘What about this, then?’ I asked, throwing the photograph onto the kitchen table.

Stephomi picked it up and I saw his mouth tighten with displeasure as he took in the quote on the back. A glint of irritation came into his eyes and he tossed the photo back onto the table.

‘We don’t look very friendly to me, Stephomi.’

‘I was telling you something you didn’t particularly want to hear at the time, I’m afraid. I’d like to answer your questions, Gabriel, but I made a promise to you and I have no intention of breaking it.’

‘Who is this?’ I asked, drawing the photo of the mystery woman from my pocket and holding it up.

‘Where did you get that?’ Stephomi asked sharply.

‘What does it matter? Do you know her?’

‘Don’t worry about her,’ Stephomi said quietly. ‘Throw the photo away, Gabriel.’

‘You know who she is, then? You do, don’t you? You know everything about this… this Godforsaken mess! Do you know how I lost my memory? Do you know where my family is?’ I asked, desperately. And then, when he remained silent, ‘Do you know who took the pictures? Do you know who sent them?’

‘I have a fairly good idea.’

‘But you’re not going to tell me, are you? You’re not going to tell me anything I want to know at all!’

‘No, Gabriel,’ Stephomi said with a wry smile. ‘Because you don’t really want to know it.’

I glared at him furiously, maddened by his attitude. How badly I wanted to hurt him in that moment. I could have beaten the truth from him, of course. After that back street incident with the Hungarian muggers, I was sure I would have been physically up to the task; but the thought of it chilled me, not least because it sprang so readily to my mind. That was not how civilised people behaved. That was not something a civilised person would think about doing.

‘You’re thinking about beating it out of me, aren’t you?’ Stephomi asked, with a smile. ‘It won’t work, you know.’

‘Don’t push me!’ I screamed at him. ‘For your own sake, don’t give me a reason!’ He couldn’t know how perilously close I was… but I was determined not to lose control this time… I wouldn’t let him force me into doing anything wrong. ‘Get out,’ I whispered.

He hesitated for a moment and then, with a shrug, he moved past me to the door and I heard it click softly shut behind him. I stood there for a minute after he’d gone, staring at the table and feeling more helpless, more completely alone than when I had first woken up, weeks ago, on the floor of this very kitchen.

The thought of not being in control is disgusting to me. Almost as if the aversion has been ingrained into my soul through years of disciplined habit. So after Stephomi had gone, I sat down at the kitchen table and calmly poured myself a glass of wine in an effort to stifle the urge to destroy my apartment again as I had done the night I’d lost Stephomi’s card. I was even briefly tempted to go out and find some muggers to attack. After all, they were only muggers. The desire to do violence to something strengthened until it was more a craving than a desire. I regretted letting Stephomi walk away like that — perhaps I should go after him? I knew where he lived… But it was no good, not in the mood I was in. It’s a terrible thing to say

… but I was frightened that if I let myself give in to these feelings I might go too far.

So I did the responsible thing and took control of the situation and poured myself another glass of wine. And then another and another. Soon I was opening a second bottle… The truth is that I drank myself senseless, but it’s not as bad as it sounds. It was intentional

… I was the one in control. It was a logical solution to a problem, that was all. It’s not like I intend to do it again — it’s not healthy, for one thing. But alcohol is sometimes useful. If you’re patient… if you drink enough of it… then there is a sort of heaviness, a paralysis that creeps into your limbs so that your fingers go numb and you drop the wine glass with a splintering of broken glass… your head falls back, the chair tips over… and you end up lying there senseless on the floor for the rest of the night where you won’t be able to do any damage to anything… or anyone.

I was woken up at about 10 a.m., rather suddenly, by a lot of very cold water being thrown into my face. I jerked awake, blinking water from my eyes and coughing it out of my mouth. At once, pain started throbbing dully through me — through my head, my neck, my shoulders — my whole body — from the combination of having slept on the hard floor all night and the alcohol that was still coursing through my system. ‘Oh good,’ Stephomi said, some of the concern fading from his face as he looked down at me, ‘you’re not dead after all. Careful, you’ve been lying in broken glass all night.’

I glanced down and saw that he was right. There were jagged pieces of glass all over the floor from the bottle of wine that Stephomi had dropped and the wine glass that I had broken later. The spilt wine from the bottle had soaked into my clothes, staining my shirt and making me smell like an alcoholic tramp.

‘Luckily you don’t seem to have cut yourself too badly,’ Stephomi said, eyeing me critically. ‘Let me give you a hand up.’

I didn’t want to take his hand but standing up would have been difficult and — let’s face it — undignified otherwise, since there was nowhere on the floor I could put my hands without cutting into them. So I took his hand in silence and let him pull me to my feet.

‘What do you want now?’ I asked thickly, carefully brushing crushed glass from my clothes.

My throat felt like sandpaper, my tongue seemed to be stuck to the roof of my mouth, and the light beyond the windows hurt my eyes, forcing me to shield them with my hand. There is, after all, a downside to too much alcohol.

‘Oh, a great many things,’ Stephomi answered cheerfully. ‘But for today I’ll settle for not seeing you drink yourself to death. It’s lucky you weren’t sick or you might have choked on your own vomit, you know. You would’ve done better to drink with me last night.’

‘Oh, shut up! I know what you’re thinking but I was in control the whole time. I told you to get out. Why have you come back? What do you want?’

Stephomi sighed. ‘I phoned you a while ago and there was no answer,’ he said quietly. ‘I was afraid that something might have happened.’ I gazed at him for a moment, water dripping from the ends of my hair to the floor where he had drenched me. I had meant it last night when I’d told the scholar to get out of my apartment. I’d really wanted to hurt him. And I was still angry with him. Angry for the deception, angry for his spiteful refusal to help me, and angry for his stubborn silence. But yet… I was pleased to see him. Who knows what true loneliness is?

‘I thought about it last night, Gabriel,’ Stephomi said, still watching me warily, ‘and I think there are some things I might be able to tell you without breaking my promise. If you want to go and dry your hair and change your clothes, I’ll wait for you.’

‘No,’ I said at once. ‘Tell me now.’

‘All right,’ Stephomi replied, following me as I stalked through to the living room.

I sat down on the couch, trying to avoid getting any red wine stains on it, wishing my head were a little clearer. Stephomi dropped down onto the other chair.

‘For starters,’ he began, ‘the money that was in your apartment

… is it still here?’

I narrowed my eyes at him and forced myself not to glance at the cupboard in which I had hidden it.

‘All right, don’t tell me,’ Stephomi said hastily, seeing the look on my face. ‘All I was going to say is that it’s yours. You didn’t steal it or anything. I’m assuming that’s what you suspected? But rest assured the money belongs to you fair and square.’

‘And what did I do to get such an amount?’ I asked.

Stephomi grimaced apologetically. ‘All I can tell you is that the money is yours. You were a writer by profession.’

‘A writer?’ I thought back to the typed manuscript I had found in my desk. ‘A less than popular one?’ I asked, realising that if I had ever succeeded in publishing anything, my works would surely grace my own bookshelves.

Stephomi shrugged slightly. ‘Mozart himself was before his time, my friend. Look, I can’t really tell you very much. You can go on hating me if you want and scream at me to get out again, but I just want to emphasise first that… you didn’t do anything to deserve this.’

‘You said that I asked you not to tell me about my past,’ I said, staring at him. ‘Are you saying that I knew I was going to lose my memory? That I somehow did this to myself?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why? How?’

‘I don’t know,’ he said simply.

‘Where is everyone?’ I asked desperately. ‘Where are my family? Where do they think I’ve gone?’

Stephomi was looking uncomfortable now. ‘I really can’t say any more, Gabriel. Faith is part of friendship,’ he said softly, looking at me closely. ‘You asked me to trust you when I promised not to give you these answers, and I did even though I didn’t like it. I believe you must have had a good reason. Now I’m afraid you’re going to have to trust me when I say I can’t tell you any more. I know it doesn’t make sense, that you have nothing solid to put your trust in here, but that is the meaning of faith.’

I wanted to trust him. I didn’t want to be completely alone here for the rest of my life, spending my evenings counting and recounting the boxes of fish food in my cupboard that I still hadn’t been able to bring myself to throw away.

With a last uncertain, apologetic grin, Stephomi stood up to go, but paused in the doorway to the kitchen and turned back. ‘Please don’t push me away, Gabriel. Leave the past alone and build a new life now.’

I laughed miserably. ‘I want to believe you… but faith isn’t enough for me. How do I know that everything you’ve told me isn’t lies?’

Stephomi paused, considering my question. ‘What can I say? I’m afraid faith will just have to be enough for now because that’s all you’ve got. But what reason would I have to lie anyway? “ The liars and those who distort the truth must perish… and then there may be room for a freer, nobler kind of humanity again. ” To quote Captain Wilm Hosenfeld.’

The name was familiar to me but Stephomi was almost at the front door when horror made me leap to my feet as I suddenly remembered who the man was.

‘You quote a Nazi to support your cause?’ I asked, striding to the doorway to stare at Stephomi in disbelief.

Once again, Stephomi turned about to face me, a small smile on his face. ‘Ah, Gabriel, why do you assume that following Hitler and being a good and brave man must be mutually exclusive?’

‘Listen to yourself!’ I said, appalled. ‘Are you trying to be funny or something? Evil and Nazi are synonymous. To suggest anything else is… it’s blasphemy!’

‘Then, forgive me, by all means,’ Stephomi replied, tilting his head as he gazed at me. ‘But I assure you there was no sin intended. You expect too much from humanity sometimes, Gabriel. We can’t all be perfect, you know. Why don’t you ask Wladyslaw Szpilman about it?’

Stephomi’s initial words had been soothing. I had begun to feel comforted by what he was telling me. But he had ruined it with that quote at the door. To even suggest that a German officer of the Second World War was anything other than a scheming, plotting, greed- and sin-driven demon made me feel utterly sick. Stephomi had described him as a ‘good and brave man’… What on Earth could have moved him to speak such depraved words? Perhaps he didn’t know the full extent of what the Nazis had done? Perhaps he didn’t know about the families murdered in front of each another; the husbands and wives who had been forced to dig each other’s graves before being shot into them; the golden teeth and fillings that were ripped from Jewish mouths before their owners were shot like dogs; the families who had shuffled onto trains together, clutching the one suitcase they were allowed to take, full of their most precious possessions, hoping against hope that, somehow, everything would still be all right and Europe would not soak in its own blood — only to have their cases torn from their fingers before they were shipped off to slaughter houses like cattle… To suggest that anyone even remotely connected with such atrocities had nothing to feel shame for… to even suggest it… disgusts me beyond words.

The name of Wladyslaw Szpilman was vaguely familiar to me and, running a quick gaze down my bookshelves, I saw that I owned a book written by him called SmiercMiasta, translated as Death of a City. It was written in Polish, which posed no problem for me. Indeed I hardly even realised it wasn’t in English until I was halfway through it. Szpilman was a Polish Jew; a survivor of the Holocaust who wrote about his experiences mere months after the war had finally ended. It was later renamed The Pianist. The memoir is quite a slim volume and, after showering and picking all the tiny pieces of glass out of my skin with tweezers, I sat and read it all the way through that day.

The story disturbs me greatly. It appals me, in fact. For the truth of it is that Captain Wilm Hosenfeld was indeed a good and brave man. Can I say that? Is it blasphemy? Or was Stephomi right? Hosenfeld saved Wladyslaw Szpilman’s life at risk to his own, and was ashamed to be German at the realisation of what was happening. He was ashamed of himself for not doing anything about it. He was a schoolteacher by profession, with a love of children, and he absolutely deplored what was being done to the Jews. He deplored it. And he cursed himself for a wretched coward and he cursed his lack of power to do anything. But, really, how very illogical of Hosenfeld to feel that way, for he would have been quite unable to do anything to influence the war even if he’d wanted to.

Six million Jews died during the Second World War. Six million of them. Captain Wilm Hosenfeld’s actions saved Wladyslaw Szpilman’s life. And so what? Six million dead. Hosenfeld saved one. In the grand scheme of things, what difference did it make…? All the difference in the world to Szpilman himself, one supposes.

Captain Hosenfeld, like all other citizens of Hitler’s Germany, had been bombarded with anti-Semitic propaganda for years: the Jews were the cause of all Germany’s problems; the Jews were the cause of all economic crises and political instabilities; the Jews were a subhuman race, who would pollute the purity of German blood if they were given the chance; the Jews were a disease, an infestation, a cancer that would have to be removed from the Earth’s gut. God, what utter madness that anyone should ever have accepted such nonsense. But people love to hate other people and pain comes easier when there is someone to blame.

When Wladyslaw Szpilman’s hiding place was discovered by a German officer, the Jew was convinced that the man’s appearance meant death for him, convinced that he would be shot in the head, as had so many others he had known. But instead of shooting him in the head, this German brought Szpilman food, wrapped up in current newspapers so that the Jew might see the war really was nearing its end. He ordered Szpilman to hold on just a little longer. Soon this will all be over and everyone can go back to being human beings again… He even brought him blankets to protect him from the bitter cold of his attic hideaway. Why did he do that? Why did he?

Szpilman wrote in his memoirs that, had it not been for this man’s assistance, had it not been for the newspapers he brought that talked of imminent German defeat, had it not been for those things, then he might have taken his own life before the war was out. He might have killed himself, unable to go on with the constant fear, the constant misery of what his life had become… when only a few years earlier he had been a respected and admired Polish pianist who played on the radio for a living.

When Hosenfeld went to visit Szpilman for the last time before he left Warsaw with his detachment, the Jew tried to persuade the German to take his watch — the one remaining treasured thing he owned — to show his gratitude for what the officer had done; but Hosenfeld refused point blank to take it. A Jew’s watch, a Basilica’s bell… how do these things become so important at a time when they should be so utterly insignificant? Why do they matter?

So what of the German captain? Was he born heroic? Nazi Germany surely wasn’t the ideal environment in which to foster heroism, so was the man simply born that way? A simple enough matter of a genetic predisposition towards bravery and decency? This story frightens me. I like black and white. I am comfortable there. Nazis should not be heroes. Just as angels should not be devils. It’s not right. When I look at some of the photos of renowned Nazi war criminals, they do not all look evil. They do not all look depraved. They do not all look soulless. Some of them look like human beings. This is not right — monsters should look like monsters; they should not be allowed to wander round among other people in such a flawless disguise.

It must have been about 9 p.m. when the note was shoved under my door. I’d just finished reading Szpilman’s memoirs and had gone into the kitchen for a glass of water when I heard the faint sound of a folded piece of paper being slipped under the door. I turned and, even as I did so, I could hear footsteps treading rapidly along the corridor. I crossed the kitchen in moments, flinging open the door and gazing out at the now empty corridor. Slamming my door behind me, I ran down to the end, just in time to see the elevator doors closing although I couldn’t see who was inside. My apartment is several floors above street level and there is only one lift so I had no choice but to run down the flights of stairs, sliding and occasionally tripping in my haste, reaching out to steady myself on the twisting steel rail.

Who the hell knew where I lived? The only person who knew my address was Stephomi, but I couldn’t believe he had shoved the note under my door and then run off down the corridor to the elevators like a child playing a prank. If nothing else, he was a clever man, and if he really wanted to torment me I am sure he would have found subtler and smarter ways to do it.

By the time I got down to street level, I was too late. There was no one. I had not been fast enough to beat the lift for it was now standing empty. The foyer was deserted but for a small, dark-skinned boy who was hovering by the front doors. I had been about to ask him if he had seen anything when a girl I recognised came into view.

I did not see much of my neighbours; probably because of the unsociable hours I kept, leaving the apartment early in the morning and not returning until late at night. But this was the pregnant girl I had tried to talk to a couple of months ago. What had she said her name was..? Casey March? I had since seen her going back into her apartment at hours similarly late to mine. I had been too afraid to talk to her after the spectacle I had made of myself before, and I hid when I could if I saw her coming.

It made me wince just to look at her as she scolded the boy for keeping her waiting, took his arm and walked out into the city. I hated seeing her coming in late at night. I got the impression that she had a late job in the city somewhere, although I didn’t know what she did with the boy while she was there. She couldn’t be his mother as he must have been at least eight. My guess was that she was his sister. I had never seen anything of any parents. It seemed it was just the two of them. I had wanted to introduce myself properly but after the grand job I’d made of it last time, she probably thought I was some kind of nutcase… this man who couldn’t even remember his last name.

I watched the two of them leave the building and then, as there seemed to be no sign of my mystery postman, I turned and took the elevator back up to the top part of the building. I trudged back down the corridor and let myself into my apartment, bending to retrieve the piece of paper from the kitchen floor and moving to the table with it. It was a plain, white sheet of A4 paper, folded once. I sat down and unfolded it. Then I sat and stared for some time. As with the photos, the words had been written in neat capitals so that it was impossible to make out any handwriting style. The message was in Latin but, being another language in which I seem to be fluent, I could understand it perfectly. How very much I wished that I had caught up with whoever had delivered this note. The words read:

Facilis Descensus Averno:

Noctes Atque Dies Patet Atri Ianua Ditsis.

I recognised the phrase from Virgil’s Aeneid. Translated into English, it reads:

The gates of Hell are open night and day;

Smooth the descent, and easy is the way.

Beneath the quote was another phrase, also in Latin, the translation of which reads:

The Ninth Circle can’t hide you for ever.

I dropped the note on the table, put my head in my hands and slumped forward in my seat, my whole body shaking with dread. This wasn’t fair!

So there it is… I was beginning seriously to consider the possibility that I was going mad. There was fear again, always fear. My sleep that night was restless — filled with Nazi soldiers, murdered Jews and red, shining circles of blood in which angels were bound. These nightmares woke me in the middle of the night and I went into the bathroom to splash cold water onto my sweating face and shoulders. I was leaning over the sink when I heard the noise behind me — the unmistakably powerful sound of roaring flames. When I slowly straightened up, cool water still running down my skin, I could see two people in the mirrored reflection of the bathroom behind me. One was the burning man I had dreamed about before. The other was the mystery woman from the alley. And they were both on fire. Neither one of them moved. They simply stood there. Staring at me. While great orange and white flames danced about their bodies.

Of course, I only gazed into the mirror for a moment before spinning round with a yell of horror. But there was nothing there when I turned. Just the sound of my own frightened breathing as the cool drops of water burned on my hot skin, splashing down onto the cold tiles. Perhaps I had a slight fever. Perhaps I was simply still half asleep. But I was beginning to genuinely fear for my sanity. My whole existence began to seem surreal to me. Why on earth hadn’t I gone to the police when I first woke up here? Why didn’t I go now? What was it, hidden at the back of my mind, that kept me from doing so? I couldn’t go to the police. I couldn’t do that. But although I knew this for the undeniable fact that it was… I couldn’t remember the reason why. And it is that ignorance that scares me more than anything else.

9th October

If only I could have known that night that I was to find the answers to those questions a mere three days later… I thank God that I now know the whole truth about my past, for at least now I don’t have to live with the doubts. Just the sadness. My past was always going to be a sad one, wasn’t it? How could it possibly ever have been anything else? But at least now I know. I know it all.

I decided to count the money — that was how it began. I decided to count the money I had hidden away so that I might know exactly how much was there. It was unsafe to keep such a large amount in the apartment and I was considering opening other bank accounts to distribute the cash. So I retrieved the sack from under the floorboards and, making sure that the door was locked and the blinds were drawn, I emptied the money out onto the floor and started to count it. And then I found something in among the bundles of notes that shouldn’t have been there. It was a key. A safety deposit box key. The writing engraved on its face showed that it was from a Hungarian bank here in Budapest, deposit box number 328.

I sat back on the floor and gazed at the key in my hand for a while. I couldn’t help but feel apprehensive at the sight of it. After all, if I was content to have a hundred thousand pounds sitting on my kitchen table in my apartment, then what on earth had I deemed so important that it must be hidden away in a vault?

I went straight into Budapest on the metro with the intention of stopping at the bank, but by the time I got there it had closed for the day. So I went first thing this morning, after a restless night of anticipation and unease. It was one of the larger banks in a busy part of the city. When I got to the entrance and saw that the doors were open, I hesitated. There could be any one of a number of terrible revelations waiting for me inside that building. Perhaps it would be better not to know? The anonymous note was going round and round my mind. What was the Ninth Circle? The dying child had passed on the mystery woman’s statement that the Ninth Circle had ‘ taken everything from me ’. The anonymous letter deliverer had written that the Ninth Circle would not hide me much longer. And Antaeus, the murderous giant of ancient Greek mythology, was the gatekeeper to the Ninth Circle of Hell itself… But then perhaps, after all, there was no bad news waiting for me in the bank. Perhaps the deposit box would just give me answers, maybe even tell me where my family were…

With an effort, I emptied my mind. I detached myself from the scene so that it was some other man, some stranger, who went and asked to visit his vault. I was shown to box 328 and left alone there. My hands did not tremble as I turned the key in the lock and drew out the slim, harmless looking drawer. I sat down at the table, removed the lid and ran my gaze over everything in the box. Pain twisted inside me as I realised the truth — the truth that had been eluding me for so long and was now all here in this little box, unable to hide from me any longer.

There was no money. No weapons, no ominous, suspicious objects as I had been half afraid that there might be. Instead, there were documents and papers and a letter. It hurt me, what was inside. First I saw the marriage certificate. Then the birth certificate. And my heart lifted. But then I saw the death certificates. There was one for a Nicola Antaeus, aged thirty. And a second for Luke Antaeus, aged four. Their names were unfamiliar to me. And yet I was listed on both as the next of kin. Husband of Nicola Antaeus… father of Luke Antaeus…

‘No,’ I said, staring at the two innocent pieces of paper.

This wasn’t fair! This wasn’t fair at all!

‘No!’ I said again, thumping my fist on the table.

Cause of death… car crash… London…

I rummaged around for something else in the box. Something that might take the sting out of the two death certificates lying on the table before me — as if anything could. But there was nothing to take comfort in here. I uncovered a letter I’d written to an aunt that had never been mailed. I realised why when I found a solicitor’s letter informing me of my aunt’s death and the fact that she had left all her wealth to me. That explained the money hidden under my floorboards, anyway…

I stared at the letter until black spots winked across the page. I shook my head, pinched the bridge of my nose, tried again. My heart sank as I read the opening line: ‘ As the only relation I have left, I’m just writing to let you know that I’m leaving London… ’ My only relation? Only one? Surely not. Surely there must be someone else left? ‘ I can’t stop thinking about Nicky and Luke… I can’t stop seeing them… I’m moving to Budapest to concentrate on my writing

… I don’t want to see anyone, I don’t want to talk to anyone… I don’t know when I’ll be back… ’

‘ No! ’ I cried again.

I felt the strong urge to tear all these dreadful papers into shreds, but at the same time I wanted to preserve them as the one link I had to my life before. And my anger faded quickly, leaving behind this aching, empty longing, which was worse. Energy drained out of me and I sat there until one of the staff came and knocked on the door, asking me if I needed any help. I realised I couldn’t stay any longer and hastily piled the contents of the box into my bag to go.

I suppose I must have caught the metro back home but I don’t remember the journey. I’d feared that what was inside the deposit box would upset me, but I had been unprepared to receive such devastatingly bad news as this. The worst news I could have got. And now I suddenly had the most thumping headache, pressing in behind my eyes, throbbing relentlessly with every pulse of my heartbeat. I got into the elevator inside my apartment block and pressed the button for my floor. Then I put a hand to my head, fingers massaging my temples, trying to relieve the pain. There were tears pricking my eyes. I could throw the rest of that fish food away now. I was never going to need it. Everything was ruined. Everything was totally ruined. I couldn’t even remember them! I couldn’t even see their faces in my head…

‘Are you okay?’

I dropped my hand and glanced up, realising that the elevator had come to a halt on my floor and the doors were open. My neighbour, Casey March, was stood there gazing at me. She was wearing a barmaid’s uniform; her dyed hair tied back; a satchel on her shoulders.

‘Are you okay?’ she asked again. ‘It’s Gabriel, isn’t it?’

I glanced round fearfully but there was no way to avoid her. I couldn’t leave the lift without walking past her. Anyway, she had seen me now.

‘I’m fine, I’m fine,’ I said, desperately trying to pull myself together long enough to get past her and back to my own apartment.

Casey hesitated, glancing at my shaking hands. ‘Do you want me to call someone for you?’

‘No, I’m okay,’ I said, stepping out of the elevator. ‘I… I just got some bad news, that’s all.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ she said, looking like she meant it.

I nodded, and the movement seemed to almost split my head in two. I couldn’t help but cry out and instinctively jerk my hands back to my head again. What was this? I hadn’t been drinking! Where had this agonising headache come from? Why was the light suddenly blinding me? Why could I taste bile rising at the back of my throat?

‘What?’ I asked, realising that Casey had just asked me something.

‘I said do you suffer from migraines?’

‘Migraines?’

I automatically went to say that, no, I’d never had a migraine in my life, but then I hesitated. How could I know? How could I know? I don’t remember anything! The pain was so bad I thought I was going to throw up.

‘It looks like a bad one. My brother gets them. You can have some of his medicine if you want.’

I would have eaten a poisoned apple at that point if I’d thought it was going to help.

‘Thank you,’ I managed.

‘I’ll just get it for you.’

I followed her back to her apartment and waited outside until she came back with a foil strip of tablets in her hand.

‘The adult dose is two tablets every four hours,’ she said. ‘It might help if you draw the curtains in your bedroom and lie down for a while. That’s what I do for Toby. Anyway, I’d better go or I’ll be late for work. I hope you feel better.’