The Sinner by Petra Hammesfahr Read Free Book Online

others' faces. The platinum
blonde didn't want to be touched by her or helped to her feet and
shepherded away. She lashed out at Cora with both fists. The seated
man told Cora to leave her alone, which she did. Ute didn't concern
her.
    She apologized to Gereon for cutting his arm, but he punched
her in the face again. The seated man had long since ceased to be
seated. He was kneeling opposite her, examining his dead friend,
but since this was a timeless moment, something for eternity, he
had to remain the seated man. "Stop that, damn you!" he yelled
at Gereon. "Give it a rest!" Gereon ignored him. `Are you mad?"
he shouted at Cora. "Why did you do it?" She didn't know It was
embarrassing somehow
    She would have liked to be alone with the dead man, just for a
minute or two, so as to be able to look at him in peace and savour
the emotions the sight of him aroused in her: satisfaction, boundless
relief and pride. It was as if some disagreeable, long-deferred task
had been accomplished at last. She almost said: "It is finished." But
she didn't; she merely sat there feeling good.
    She continued to feel so even when the first policemen turned up:
four uniformed officers. One of them asked if the knife was hers.
When she confirmed this, he asked if she had killed the man with it.
    "Yes, of course," she replied. "It was me."
    The policeman said they would have to detain her. She need not
make a statement, was entitled to a lawyer and so on.
    She got to her feet. "Many thanks," she said. "I don't need a
lawyer, everything's fine." And it was. Everything was absolutely
fine. The joy, the inner peace - she had never experienced such
wonderful sensations before.
    A policeman told Gereon to take her clean underclothes and ID
from the shoulder bag and hand them over. She wasn't allowed to
touch the bag herself, she was only allowed to take her skirt and Tshirt. She forgot about a towel.

    Gereon proceeded to rummage in the bag. "You must be out
of your mind!" lie snarled. "You stabbed me too!" She answered
him in a calm, controlled manner. Then Gereon handed her
underclothes to the policeman, who had no choice but to pass
them on to her with a neutral expression.
    They allowed her to freshen up. Two uniformed officers escorted
her to the staff washroom in the low building beside the entrance.
The washbasin was filthy, the mirror above it cloudy and spattered
with countless splash marks, but she could see her face well enough.
She felt her right temple. The skin there was broken, and her right
eyelid badly swollen. She could only see through a narrow slit on
that side, but it didn't worry her.
    She ran the tip of her tongue over her upper lip, tasted blood and
thought of the wooden figure in the corner of the living room, of
the red paint on its hands and feet and the wound in its side, from
which several thin threads trickled down. She knew it was only
paint, even at the age of four. But the blood of the man, the blood
on her face and body was genuine. And there lay redemption.
    Everything was red. Her swimsuit, her arms, her hands - even
her hair was smeared with it. She would have liked to leave it that
way, but she didn't want to annoy the policemen so she turned
on the tap, sluiced her hands and arms, held her head under the
thin trickle and watched the blood run into the basin. It looked
paler when mixed with water, almost like the raspberryade of her
childhood. Not that it had been raspberryade, just syrup diluted
with water.
    Mother had eventually capitulated and made a concession to her
sinful desires: one glass of diluted juice a day. Two, to be exact: one
for her and one for Magdalena. She saw herself standing at the
scratched and dented kitchen table; saw herself watching closely
as Mother trickled syrup into two tumblers, taking care to pour the
same amount into each; saw herself snatch the one that held maybe
a millilitre more, then hurry to the tap before Mother noticed the