Bunker by Andrea Maria Schenkel

didn’t penetrate the peritoneum, you can stitch that afterwards, here. We only have to work on the upper wound.’
    Without looking at his assistant, who is standing opposite him at the operating table, the surgeon makes these remarksto him in an undertone. He asks for a scalpel. Extends the wound by about two centimetres up and two centimetres down. The young doctor opposite him watches every move closely, nodding vigorously.
    The sharp scalpel moves lightly over the skin, but an incision immediately appears. Light red blood comes out in three or four places, sometimes in a thin jet. It is quickly staunched with compresses, and the sites of the bleeding are cauterized with an electric burner. Little clouds of smoke rise, and there’s a smell of burning in the nostrils of the team standing around the patient. The bleeding stops.

‘There’s food on the table. Your clothes are at the end of the bed. They’re still wet, I washed them as best I could.’
    He’s bandaged my hands again, washed my clothes, prepared a meal and laid the table. What
does
he want me for? He’s attacked me, beaten me up, brought me here and kept me prisoner in this place. Is he a normal criminal? It makes no sense. It wasn’t coincidence. He’s carrying out a plan. He must have planned to abduct me. Is he some kind of pervert? A pervert who kidnaps women, tortures them and keeps them prisoner? How did he get hold of that photo? He must have been in my apartment. But why? Obviously he’s been spying on me. It all fits Hans. Hanswanting to get his revenge. He was after me, not the money. The attack was just for show, the real idea, the point of the whole thing, was abducting me! The photo backs that up, why else the photo? The photo. That’s the key to the whole thing. I must get it out of him. But how?
    By talking to him, building up a link with him. The stronger the link between us, the harder it will be for him to kill me, just get me out of the way. Sort of like the Stockholm syndrome in reverse. There was an article about that in the newspaper. But does he simply want to do away with me? He’s tended my hands, washed my things, cooked for me. Maybe he wants both revenge
and
the money?
    For now I’m dependent on him. I can’t even dress or feed myself, I can’t go to the loo by myself. I hate this. I can’t do anything on my own, anything at all, I even have to ask him to put my knickers on me. I’m absolutely dependent on this guy. Does he like that, does it turn him on? I could have got away more than once. Not now, though, I can’t even get down that steep staircase without his help. I can’t hold on to anything with my hands in this state. I’ve got myself into one hell of a mess. I ought to be terribly afraid. But I’m not. I’m perfectly calm, it’s as if it is nothing to do with me. As if I am sitting inside a bubble or a glass ball. I can see and hear everything, but nothing gets through to me. I’m composed,which is really odd. I ought to be screaming, raging, crying, defending myself. But I’m just calmly observing things. Sitting behind the glass wall inside me, separated from myself. Absolutely crazy. Well, it makes no difference if he’s Hans or some other weirdo, I have to get him on my side. I don’t stand a chance unless I get him on my side. My only chance. Oh God, help me!
    The first thing I must do is get dressed, and then we’ll see. I’ll have to ask him to help. ‘Can you help me get dressed, please?’
    He nods. This is terribly embarrassing for me. He helps me into my clothes. He doesn’t seem to mind doing that – if anything the opposite.
    â€˜Thank you.’
    He goes over to the table and sits down. I stand where I am in the room, undecided.
    â€˜Hungry? Come and have something to eat.’
    With an inviting wave of his hand he beckons me over. I go towards him, sit down. He smiles