who has been taciturn all morning, ever since the conversation in the car, looks down at the untouched cup of coffee in his hand. He puts it down on the little table. ‘If you’ll excuse me,’ he says, ‘there is something I have to do.’ He crosses the living room again, going back out into the hallway, his mother following him with her eyes.
After a moment, she turns back to Futh. ‘More coffee?’ she says, turning away to pour it, asking what he does for a living.
‘I work in the manufacture of synthetic smells,’ says Futh.
‘Oh yes?’ She looks glazed.
He elaborates. ‘We artificially replicate the chemical compounds which make apples smell like apples and so on, mimicking natural smells. Have you heard of scratch and sniff? In scratch and sniff technology, the chemicals are captured in microscopic spheres, like tiny bottles of perfume. When a scratch and sniff panel is used, a few of the bottles are broken, but there are millions of them – after twenty years all the bottles will not be broken, the fragrance will not be gone.’
‘Oh, I’m sure that’s very interesting,’ she says. She glances at her watch. ‘And what does your father do?’
‘He was a chemistry teacher,’ says Futh. ‘He’s retired now.’ He finishes his coffee and Carl’s mother smiles and reaches out to take the cup from his hands. ‘Thank you,’ he says, glancing at the coffee pot.
She begins to stand, with Futh’s empty cup in her hands, saying, ‘Well, I’m sure you want to go on your way.’
‘I’m not in any hurry,’ says Futh. She hesitates, and then settles back down again. Futh shifts towards her and continues, his breath heavy with coffee. ‘Everything you smell contains a volatile chemical, which evaporates and activates the nasal sensory cells. When you can smell something it’s because it’s releasing molecules into the air, which you inhale.’
‘I have so much to do,’ she says, and Futh begins to explain the rota system he and Angela used for housework.
Carl’s mother seems distracted. From time to time, she glances towards the door through which Carl left. Suddenly, she stands up, saying, ‘I know what he’s doing.’ She strides across the room and into the hallway. Futh hears her give a single knock on a door before entering. She closes the door behind her and Futh can hear her speaking angrily to Carl, although he can’t make out what is being said.
When she returns she says to Futh, who is reaching out to take another pastry, ‘Perhaps you should be going after that.’ Futh, trying to choose between the remaining pastries, is only vaguely aware of Carl reentering the room. Carl’s mother, already moving away from Futh towards the kitchen, says, ‘Shall I pack you a lunch to take with you?’
‘That won’t be necessary,’ he says. ‘I’m due to have lunch in Hellhaus.’
‘You won’t be there for lunch,’ she says.
Futh, who has lost track of the time and who in any case does not really know how long this leg of his journey will take, looks at his watch and sees how late in the morning it is. ‘Well,’ he says, smiling gratefully at his host, ‘if that’s the case then that would be very kind of you.’
She goes into the kitchen and Carl follows her.
Futh, left behind, perched on the edge of the terrible sofa, looks towards the kitchen door. When it swings open, he sees Carl quietly admonishing his mother. It swings to and then swings open again and he sees Carl’s mother turning, making her hushed reply. They speak not only in low voices but in Dutch, and Futh does not understand a word. The swinging slows and stops. Futh is reminded of the scenes he tried not to hear as a child, his parents whispering furiously on the other side of closed doors.
Carl is the first to come out of the kitchen. ‘Please,’ he says, ‘you don’t have to go. My mother did not mean to make you feel unwelcome.’
‘Well,’ says Futh, eyeing the cooling coffee pot, ‘I probably should get going.’
Carl’s mother comes into the room holding a greaseproof-paper parcel. ‘For your journey,’ she says to Futh, presenting him with the package. He takes it, expecting it to be warm in his hands but finding it cold.
Carl follows him out into the hallway. ‘You should stay,’ he says. ‘I really want you to stay.’ Futh, putting on his coat, smiles and offers his hand. Carl takes it, holding it a little too long.
Futh calls back into the living room, ‘Many thanks for your hospitality.’ He waits for a reply but none comes. He leaves the apartment and climbs back down the stairs to the front door which closes heavily behind him as he steps out into the street carrying the cool parcel in both hands.
At noon, Futh finally makes his way out of Utrecht and gets back onto the motorway, driving in the direction of Hellhaus, which is the name of both the town to which he is heading and the hotel in which he will be staying, where he will spend both this first night and his last night.
As he drives south with his window down, his bare forearm, resting on the frame, burns.
After a couple of hours, he stops at a rest area to eat the meat pie which Carl’s mother gave him, savouring it, the perfect pastry melting in his mouth, the meat juice running down his chin and onto the front of his short-sleeved shirt.
He remembers a picnic in Cornwall, a family summer holiday just before his mother left: beef and onion in pastry with a forkhole pattern, lukewarm in a greasy paper bag; sitting on a cliff in blazing sunshine, looking at a lighthouse and listening to his father going on about the old beacon built by a notorious wrecker, a plunderer of stranded ships.
He returns to the motorway and drives until the end of the afternoon when he realises that he has missed his turning some way back. Unable – on the motorway, in between junctions – to turn around, he presses on, going in the wrong direction, accelerating.
Futh recalls sitting in the passenger seat of Angela’s car with a UK road atlas in his hands, looking on the map for the place names he saw signposted at each motorway exit they sped past, and it dawning on him that he was taking them the wrong way round the M25. He grew anxious but kept quiet, wanting to be mistaken, to be going the right way after all despite the mounting evidence to the contrary. Angela said, ‘This doesn’t feel right,’ but still he said nothing, putting off the moment when he would have to admit his mistake, when they would have to come off the motorway and go all the way back, and meanwhile just making things worse.
By the time he arrives at Hellhaus, it is dreadfully late. It is dark as he parks his car and walks up the street with his suitcase on wheels, heading towards the centre of the small town.
He has wondered whether this Hellhaus has similar origins to a Hellhaus he knows of in Saxony – the ruin of a structure sited at the intersection of forest paths, used in its day to see and signal the whereabouts of escaping game. But when he turns a corner and sees the hotel, he understands why it has this name, which translates as ‘bright house’ or ‘light house’. Whitewashed and moonlit, it is incandescent.
He feels again the tipping sensation he has experienced on and off since leaving the ferry. It feels like his soul is sliding out and then sliding back in again. His insides feel like the jelly in his father’s hot pork pies oozing through cracks in the crust.
He trudges up the final incline, exhausted from driving and hungry again, the hotel a beacon before
