Three years later.
The boy was hanging upside down on the carpet hanger of the small backyard with closed eyes. He was small for his age. His shoes looked worn-out, his trousers two sizes too big and held in place by suspenders. The too-wide flat cap had slipped from his head into the sun-dried grass and gave view to a bright orange-red shock of hair. The boy listened to the sounds of his surroundings. Those that could be heard, like the chirping of grasshoppers and the jumble of a radio that came out of one of the windows, and those that only he heard. Silent voices, whispering, cursing, laughing, crying, happy, desperate, shameless, upset, disgusted.
High above him, a window opened. Someone called his name. He opened his eyes and saw his mother poke her head out of the narrow kitchen window.
"Get in here, food is ready!"
He ignored her and tried to recapture the voices, but the magic of the moment was gone. HIs mother repeated her call. She sounded tired and impatient. With a sigh, he released his legs from the metal bar and, after a skillful turn, came down feet first. He got his cap off the floor and pulled it back down so that only half of his face could be seen. He did not like when people stared at him.
He hurried past the ash barrels and opened the door to the stairwell. The smell of cooked cabbage and floor wax washed over him. He stopped and waited until his eyes had gotten used to the lack of brightness and the courtyard door had closed behind him. In the yellow-and-brown checkered half-light he swung himself up the thick wooden railing polished by countless hands, always taking two of the well-worn steps at once.
On the first landing he suddenly stopped and pricked up his ears. A car had pulled up and stopped in front of the house. That was unusual. He ducked and peered through the bars of the railing into the hallway. Several shadows appeared in front of the glass insert of the double-leafed front door. Above him, the door bell one of the apartments rang. Torn between curiosity and caution, he stayed in place staring at the shadows. There were many of them. Definitely five or six men. That could only mean trouble. When the door buzzer was pressed, he let go of the railing and fled up the stairs while wisely omitting the creaking steps.
He arrived at the top floor a little bit short of breath. His mother was in the process of tying her hair neatly. She smoothed her apron and gave him a small smile that did not reach her eyes.
"Go and wash your hands," she said, pushing him toward the small bathroom. "I'll be right back. Someone rang at the door. "
He froze in the movement. There were heavy footsteps in the stairwell. Boots maltreated the groaning steps. A threatening thunderstorm that rolled up the stairs unopposed. His heart pounded, he did not dare to breathe. With his last ounce of strength, he tore himself from the grip of his fear and rushed into the bathroom. The familiar, slightly musty odor of stale water and hard soap was in the air. It was cool in here. He turned on the water and put his hands into the stream. There were voices in the hallway now. He closed the tap and listened.
"We're here for the boy," one of the men said. "We want to talk to him."
"Oh, did he do something wrong?" His mother's voice sounded worried. He knew she was fiddling with her apron ribbons. She always did that when she was nervous.
"Not yet," the man answered and one or two others laughed. "Now bring him here."
The boy did not like the condescending tone of the man. He pressed his jaws together. What was he supposed to do?
"He ... he's in the bathroom," his mother said now. "Wait, I'll get him."
"Not necessary," the man replied, and a moment later heavy boots moved toward the door that hid him. The door was pushed open and a man in a black uniform entered the room.
"Got you, bub," he growled, grabbed his shoulder and shoved him outside.
Two men, also dressed in uniforms, stood at the front door, legs apart. Two more were positioned at the entrances to the kitchen and the bedroom. The one who had talked to his mother stood in the middle of the hall. When she saw him coming out of the bathroom, she tried to get to him, but the man held her by the wrist.
"Please...my son...", she stammered. "Don't hurt him."
"That's entirely up to him," the man replied. He released his mother and gestured to his men. "We're finished here. Wrap up and leave!"
The uniformed man next to him strengthened the grip on his shoulder and pushed him down the hall towards the door.
"No, you can't do that. You can't take him!" his mother shouted. She was about to lunge at the man at his side, but the commanding officer shoved her roughly against the wall and stood up in front of her. His leather clad finger almost pierced her face.
"If you know what's good for you, stay calm now," he hissed. "And not a single word to anyone about this."
"Leave her alone," the boy snarled and tried in vain to wriggle out of the grip of the man at his side.
The leader turned around. A malicious grin decorated his face. "Or else what, kid? What do you want to do that against me and my men? "
He bucked against the firm grip again and stared at the man with clenched teeth. The prick was right. He could not overcome them with physical superiority. That did not mean he was defenseless though. There was something he could do. He had done it sometimes ... admittedly many times. Mostly to his own mother. If he heard her think about giving him a lecture about his grades at lunch for example. Or if she wanted to force him to clean up his room or do yet another unpleasant job.
There was this point in her head. If he squeezed gently, like testing a pear for ripeness, she got a headache. Then she had to lie down and he was save from her nagging. It worked every time and he had stopped feeling guilty about it long ago. He concentrated on that point inside the man's head now, but instead of gentle pressure, he rather thought of a sharp knife.
The man in front of him him swayed for a moment. His hand went to his forehead and he frowned. Then he suddenly huffed furiously, took a big step, and slapped him hard. The boy's head was thrown back and a terrible ringing suddenly overlapped the sounds of his surroundings. Everything went black black and he tasted blood in his mouth.
He heard his mother call out. Muffled, as if his ears were blocked by cotton wool. "No! My son!"
There was a scuffle, followed by a dull thud and a strangled sound. With the last of his strength he forced his eyes to open and watched as his mother slowly slid down the doorpost. The back of her head left a broad trail of blood on the light wood. Her eyes were wide open, her lips moving. Softly, infinitely distant, she whispered his name.
He wanted to break away, to get to her, comfort her, but his body did not obey. Helplessly, he had to watch the light in her eyes go out. She remained sunk-down on the floor, his beloved flat cap in her hands still.
And what about him? He was carried away from the place he had called his home for years. Sometimes it had seemed like a prison with its tight spaces, its closed-up walls, its narrow-minded people. He had been angry. Angry at his mother, who locked him up, and he had sometimes enjoyed the feeling of her being afraid of him. Afraid of what he could do to her head. But he had never wanted something like that to happen.
He no longer registered that he was placed in the back of the car. Did not hear that the destination of the ride was the airport. Did not feel the needle in his arm, which was supposed to keep him quiet. The only thing he still felt was his desire for revenge.
Newspaper report in the evening of the same day:
For unknown reasons, a car strayed off the highway this afternoon and overturned on an unsecured slope. Witnesses report that only one inmate, a 14-year-old boy, was able to escape the flames. He was taken in by the driver of a second vehicle, who stopped at the accident site shortly after, and has since been missing. Relevant information about the accident and the whereabouts of the boy are to be passed to the local police department.