The Ninth circle

29th August

Five days have passed since I last wrote here. It’s almost one o’clock in the morning. I’m dripping wet, my clothes are stained with splatters of blood, and there is a bleeding gash at the back of my head that is swelling up into a painful lump already. For four days I kept to my decision to stay inside the apartment. But this morning, I decided that I might have overreacted to the incident with the boy and the butterfly. And I was tired of takeout food. So I went to a nearby restaurant: the Pest Buda Vendeglo. I don’t like eating alone — it depresses me. I ordered a Hungarian traditional speciality, Libamaj Zsirjaban — goose liver fried in its own fat — along with a glass of dry Pinot Noir. I don’t have much of a sweet tooth so I would usually skip dessert, but the Vendeglo does the most delicious Gundel Palacsinta and I was reluctant to return to my apartment too soon, so I ordered the dessert to extend the evening.

I had been feeling almost content until the couple at the table next to me started to argue. Quietly at first, and then the man started to raise his voice and the woman was crying and other diners were looking embarrassed and pretending they hadn’t noticed.

The man stormed out in the end, leaving the woman alone at the table, looking miserable and embarrassed. I should have felt sorry for her like everyone else. But all I could feel was envy. At least she had someone to argue with, the lucky bitch. They must surely care about each other a lot to argue so fiercely. I could have hated them for it.

I lost my appetite, and pushed away the remainder of the sweet pancakes-And then I saw her. She was staring in at me through the window from the dark street outside, her nose pressed up against the glass. She was a little distorted from the ripples of the window, but she was clearly shocked by the sight of me. And she recognised me. I know she did. Pure instinct made me jump to my feet in excitement. She was middle-aged. In her forties, I would say, with the most beautiful chestnut hair. She saw that I’d spotted her and turned away from the window at once.

I called out to her as she walked quickly off into the night, and made to follow — but then remembered the meal and hastily threw down a roll of notes, probably leaving far too much on the table before striding from the restaurant.

Once on the darkened street outside, I strained my eyes, hoping I was not too far behind her. My only thought was to catch her up and make her tell me what she knew. For she did know something about me, I was quite sure in my mind about that. I’d seen it when our eyes met. For a moment I thought I’d missed her. There were few people out and about at this time of night in this area, and there didn’t seem to be anyone else within view as I stood there in the shelter of the restaurant archway. But then, by chance, I saw a head of chestnut hair disappearing down a side street and, with a strangled yell of excitement, I set off after her at a run. Thrills of anticipation rushed through me as I chased her. The mist hanging in the air clung to me and wet my hair and clothes even as rain began to fall in a gentle, hushed whispering that dampened out all other sound.

Within moments my clothes were soaked through. Feet sliding on the wet cobbles, I rounded the corner and set off down the dark alleyway behind the running woman. Anger flared suddenly and I was aware of a snarl curling my lips. Damn her, why did she run from me? I wasn’t going to hurt her. I just wanted her knowledge. Information, memories, answers — that was all I wanted. She was fast, though, and seemed to know where she was going as she sped deeper into the maze of back streets that we were both now quite lost in. I’m very fit and a fast runner myself, but I always seemed to be just a few yards behind the chestnut-haired woman. It was infuriating. Several times I almost lost her in the rain and mist, the only light coming from the shadowed moon above and the soft, reflected light from elsewhere in the city.

She had been running with surprising speed, as if she was scared out of her mind. So I was not prepared for her to suddenly come to a dead stop in the middle of a darkened street. I, too, slid to a halt, panting and trying to get my breath back as she turned towards me, her face half hidden in shadow. She did not seem at all breathless, and for long moments we simply gazed at one another in silence, the rain falling around us, drenching the cobbles beneath our feet. I had been about to ask her who she was, her name, how she knew me… but her expression stopped me. Deep, harsh lines were etched into her face, and there was raw fear in her eyes as she gazed at me in silence. And then she spoke, in a quiet, desperate voice, which somehow I managed to hear above the rain.

‘ Eltevedtem.’

I’m lost.

I stared at her. Rainwater ran down the back of my neck and down my face, dripping from my chin and the ends of my eyelashes. After a moment I took a step towards her. I would help her. I’d find a way to assist her somehow. But then I noticed a movement in the darkness and realised that we were not alone in the alleyway.

‘ Tessek vigyazni!’ Look out! I yelled as a man stepped out of the shadows at her back.

I made to run towards them, but pain exploded suddenly behind my eyes as someone struck the back of my head, hard. In my preoccupation with the mystery woman, I had failed to realise there were other men behind me. A broken cobble bit deep into my cheek and my teeth seemed to go halfway through my lip when I hit the ground, warm blood filling my mouth and running down my face. Someone grabbed my shoulders and twisted me onto my back, running practised fingers through my pockets. Rain fell into my eyes and the moon above me seemed to spin nauseatingly in the night sky. I was aware of the thief ’s crow of glee as he drew out my well-filled wallet.

Perhaps hoping to find more riches, the thief was still leaning over me when I spat a mouthful of blood into his face. He jerked back instinctively, and at the same time my hand whipped out and gripped his ankle. One swift jerking movement and he’d slipped over on the wet cobbles, sprawling on his back beside me. Others started running towards us.

Afterwards I counted five of them on the ground around me. They had hardly touched me, for all that they had attacked together. There had been no conscious thought involved at all. Some of them had knives and other makeshift weapons, but it had been an easy enough thing for me to twist their hands back round on themselves so that they couldn’t help but drop their knives of their own accord, turning their strength against them, bones snapping like twigs so that I hardly even broke a sweat. The stronger they were, the easier it was. With the right movements, they would break their own bones for me. How painfully easy it was. Like shooting fish in a pond with a bazooka. There’s no need for endless, energy-sapping punches and kicks when pressure applied to a certain place on a man’s neck will render him unconscious before he’s even realised what you’re doing. You just have to know where to press.

I don’t think the fight went on for very long. I was disappointed when they stopped getting up. It had been too easy. It had been far too easy! I was not ready for it all to be over yet. My heart was thumping in my chest with exhilaration, and I wanted more! I kicked one of them a couple of times, hoping it might incite him to get up, but all I got out of him was a muffled groan. They were all much larger than me, I noted with fierce pleasure as I bent and retrieved my sodden wallet from the ground.

It took me another moment before I remembered why I had been in the alley in the first place. I looked up sharply but, in all the turmoil and disorder, the woman had fled. The alley was quiet and deserted once more, save for the soft whisper of the falling rain. I’d saved her from being mugged or raped, or worse. She had escaped. I’d saved her from her own folly at running deep into one of Budapest’s dark, deserted side streets — the predatory silence of a sordid, greedy night.

In that moment I didn’t care that I was still without answers. And I have to say, I still can’t find it in myself to care. They were no match for me! Those five large men, no doubt professional thieves, muggers and pickpockets — bulging with brute muscle and brimming with cowardly weapons. The euphoria of it, like rediscovering some old hobby that you had once taken such pleasure in, and finding your skill not at all diminished by time. Even now, back in the haven of my apartment, my senses are all tingling with a thrilling, heightened awareness. This has been, I am sure, one of the best evenings of my life. I wish I could do it over again every night!

1st September

What I wrote in this journal three days ago… upsets me. It really scares me. I wish I was someone else. I wish I could be some other person. When I woke up the next morning, sprawled on my bed, my head was throbbing dully, the pillow was spotted with dark blood, but I still felt exhilarated as I showered and dressed. Exhilaration for some minutes before the fear. Fear that got more intense until I cringed just to see myself in the mirror. What kind of a thing are you anyway? It wasn’t the fight itself that scared me; it was the fact that I hadn’t really held back. It had gone beyond mere self-defence, somehow. And… I couldn’t remember all of it… too clearly. I didn’t use any weapons, though, did I? Only my hands, and how much damage can be done with them? I didn’t kill anyone.

I hid in my apartment for the next two days, waiting, waiting for any news. I checked the Hungarian news on the internet and had local papers brought up to me from the shop below, opening the door a mere crack to snatch the papers from the boy and thrust the money at him. There has been no mention of any back street murders, which surely there would have been had any of the muggers not survived. So perhaps I am overreacting. No one died, so what’s to be so upset about? Night-time crime will be rife in any capital city. All I really did was take five of those criminals out of action for a while. And they attacked me first anyway. Apart from feeding the fish, once I remember where they are, my life has no purpose at the moment. Perhaps the sensible thing to do would be to go out every night and seek out such criminals.

I know it sounds a bit alarming, but isn’t that what the superheroes do? The superheroes that children so love to read about — Superman and Spiderman and the rest of them. They have the means to take the law into their own hands to protect people, to save them. I like that. I could do that. I don’t need sleep and food in the same way that other people do. I could be a superhero.

I can imagine the headlines now: ‘Night-Time Crime in Budapest Mysteriously Drops by 80 %!’ I would very much like to do it. But I’m not naive. I know what would happen. The police would view me as a criminal too — after all, I would be attacking people. I can’t risk the police finding me. They wouldn’t understand that I was only doing it to keep people safe. All they would see was this crazy man who went out late at night looking for people to beat up. I can’t have that. Sadly, the community will just have to do without me.

What happened three days ago was bad enough, for I wasn’t discreet at all. Once I was sure I wouldn’t get any more fun out of my attackers, I ran through the streets to the metro station, jumping and whooping and yelling in my euphoria. God, what craziness — the police might have seen me. They might have arrested me. If there was anyone else in my carriage on the metro, they must have been appalled at the sight of me — this wild-eyed, dripping wet madman with blood running down my face and crusted in my hair; and I had probably still been sucking it from my teeth and gums. Bloody, bloody stupid thing to do.

But at least I saved the mystery woman. I gave her the diversion she needed to escape. But how to find her again? Budapest is a large city, and she could be anywhere. She might not even live here at all; she could be anywhere in Hungary. It was the most extraordinary bad luck that those thugs should have attacked at that moment. She knew me. I know she did. But with no name, no address, no personal details of any kind, I have no way of contacting her. All I can do is hope that I might stumble into her again; but really, in a city of this size, it was unlikely enough to happen once let alone a second time. It puzzles me, though — I mean, who was she? She couldn’t have been a relative. A relative would have greeted me no matter how annoyed they might have been about my not feeding their fish. They would have greeted me even if only to berate me. I don’t know; I don’t know. Maybe she was, after all, just a crazy woman. God knows, there are plenty of those about.

2nd September

There is no denying it any more. I have been here like this, waiting for family or friends or colleagues or someone to turn up, for almost a month now. But no one has come, and I admit I am beginning to feel the pinch of loneliness. Though I hate to admit it, I do think there is a very real possibility that… no one is coming back. I have only just moved here myself. Perhaps I was going to send a forwarding address to my friends and relatives once I got settled in, but lost my memory before I could do so? Perhaps I really don’t know anyone here in the city. How long can I let this go on for?

I spent several hours today wandering round Budapest asking people if they had the time. I just wanted them to see me. I just wanted to actually talk to someone. But the exchanges could never go on for too long, of course, because someone would be bound to ask me something about myself that I could not answer, and I know I would panic and probably just start running back here. People wouldn’t like that. It’s not normal. I wish I could get a child from somewhere. Children don’t ask awkward personal questions like that. They’re not interested in where you’ve come from or what you did before this moment.

I like going to the park to watch them play. There is nothing inappropriate in it — nothing perverted or depraved. I just like watching. They’re so… new and unspoiled. They’re so trusting and naive and beautiful. The world hasn’t had a chance to ruin them yet. But it doesn’t look right for me to stand there, alone, staring at them for hours. It makes the mothers nervous, despite my expensive clothes and immaculate appearance. I suppose they don’t think it natural for a man to be stood there, just staring, for so long; so if I go again, I think I must buy a cheap pushchair or something to stand there with, and then everyone will assume I am simply keeping an eye on my own child. I admit that I would very much like to take one of those kids. But I would never act on this. I can’t abide criminals, and it’s not right to take other people’s children. I would never do something like that. I just hope that my own family, my own friends, will turn up soon. If there’s really no one here, then I need to find someone else to talk to.