his head, but it sounded like an echo. He’d already forgotten her smell.
In the Internet area he booted up a computer and inserted some euros, propping his chin on his fists. While the view of the city slowly changed before his eyes, he allowed his thoughts to run on.
Perhaps he had to pass a test, one to which there was a correct answer. A correct response that would extricate him from his predicament. A password, an open sesame, an email to God.
www.marie.com
Page not found
www.marie.at
Page not found
www.marie.uk
Page not found
If a password of sorts existed, it ought to have some connection with himself. That seemed logical.
www.jonas.at
Page not found
www.help.at
Page not found
www.help.com
Page not found
www.god.com
Page not found
He fetched himself another bottle of lemonade and drank, looking out over the city as it slid past.
www.vienna.at
Page not found
www.world.com
Page not found
He tried to access dozens more known and invented websites, checked to see what pages had been stored and tried them too. In vain.
www.umirom.com
Page not found. Try again later or check your settings .
*
Bottle in hand, Jonas unhurriedly explored every part of the café. In the children’s corner he came across some painting equipment. He had loved mucking around with paints as a child, but his parents had very soon confiscated all his brushes and crayons because he made a mess and ruined some of his mother’s needlework.
His eye lighted on a white tablecloth.
He counted the tables in the café. There were a dozen or more, plus the ones on the upper floor.
He proceeded to strip them all. The upper floor yielded fourteen tablecloths, and he found a few spares in a dresser. By the time he’d finished, thirty-three squares of cloth lay spread out in front of him.
He knotted the ends together to form an oblong made up of three times eleven tablecloths. He had to push the tables and chairs aside to create enough room to work in. It was half an hour before he went and fetched the tubes of paint. He decided on black.
His name? His phone number? Just HELP ?
He hesitated for a moment before starting to paint, then completed the job in short order. It wasn’t easy because the tablecloths tended to wrinkle up. Besides, he had to gauge the letter-spacing and apply the paint thickly enough.
He used the remainder in the tubes to write his phone number on the walls, tables and floor.
The panoramic window couldn’t be opened, so he blew out two panes on either side of an upright with the shotgun. The two reports were followed moments later by the tinkle of glass raining down on the terrace below. Wind came surging into the café, sweeping menus off the bare tables and rattling the glasses behind the bar.
Jonas knocked out the remaining shards of glass with the butt of his gun. He felt queasy when he stationed himself at the window holding the ends of his improvised banner. He ought to have turned off the motor, he realised. The café’s rotation didn’t exactly help. The wind lashed his face, making his eyes water. He felt as if he might topple into space at any moment, but he managed to tie the ends of the three outermost tablecloths firmly to the window frame. The material was thin, after all, and he felt sure the frame would hold.
Bundling up the rest of his banner, he hefted it out of the window. It hung down limply for a moment. Then thewind caught it, but the inscription was still not as clearly visible as he’d hoped.
He picked up the gun, cast a brief glance at the devastation he was leaving behind, and hurried to the control booth. Tools were readily available there because the in-house mechanics used it as their depot. A moment later he was standing beside the regulator with a hammer. Three blows sufficed to knock out the cotter pin. An alarm went off. The regulator offered little resistance as he turned it beyond the 26 mark.
A low, all-pervading hum filled the air. He couldn’t see what was
In the Internet area he booted up a computer and inserted some euros, propping his chin on his fists. While the view of the city slowly changed before his eyes, he allowed his thoughts to run on.
Perhaps he had to pass a test, one to which there was a correct answer. A correct response that would extricate him from his predicament. A password, an open sesame, an email to God.
www.marie.com
Page not found
www.marie.at
Page not found
www.marie.uk
Page not found
If a password of sorts existed, it ought to have some connection with himself. That seemed logical.
www.jonas.at
Page not found
www.help.at
Page not found
www.help.com
Page not found
www.god.com
Page not found
He fetched himself another bottle of lemonade and drank, looking out over the city as it slid past.
www.vienna.at
Page not found
www.world.com
Page not found
He tried to access dozens more known and invented websites, checked to see what pages had been stored and tried them too. In vain.
www.umirom.com
Page not found. Try again later or check your settings .
*
Bottle in hand, Jonas unhurriedly explored every part of the café. In the children’s corner he came across some painting equipment. He had loved mucking around with paints as a child, but his parents had very soon confiscated all his brushes and crayons because he made a mess and ruined some of his mother’s needlework.
His eye lighted on a white tablecloth.
He counted the tables in the café. There were a dozen or more, plus the ones on the upper floor.
He proceeded to strip them all. The upper floor yielded fourteen tablecloths, and he found a few spares in a dresser. By the time he’d finished, thirty-three squares of cloth lay spread out in front of him.
He knotted the ends together to form an oblong made up of three times eleven tablecloths. He had to push the tables and chairs aside to create enough room to work in. It was half an hour before he went and fetched the tubes of paint. He decided on black.
His name? His phone number? Just HELP ?
He hesitated for a moment before starting to paint, then completed the job in short order. It wasn’t easy because the tablecloths tended to wrinkle up. Besides, he had to gauge the letter-spacing and apply the paint thickly enough.
He used the remainder in the tubes to write his phone number on the walls, tables and floor.
The panoramic window couldn’t be opened, so he blew out two panes on either side of an upright with the shotgun. The two reports were followed moments later by the tinkle of glass raining down on the terrace below. Wind came surging into the café, sweeping menus off the bare tables and rattling the glasses behind the bar.
Jonas knocked out the remaining shards of glass with the butt of his gun. He felt queasy when he stationed himself at the window holding the ends of his improvised banner. He ought to have turned off the motor, he realised. The café’s rotation didn’t exactly help. The wind lashed his face, making his eyes water. He felt as if he might topple into space at any moment, but he managed to tie the ends of the three outermost tablecloths firmly to the window frame. The material was thin, after all, and he felt sure the frame would hold.
Bundling up the rest of his banner, he hefted it out of the window. It hung down limply for a moment. Then thewind caught it, but the inscription was still not as clearly visible as he’d hoped.
He picked up the gun, cast a brief glance at the devastation he was leaving behind, and hurried to the control booth. Tools were readily available there because the in-house mechanics used it as their depot. A moment later he was standing beside the regulator with a hammer. Three blows sufficed to knock out the cotter pin. An alarm went off. The regulator offered little resistance as he turned it beyond the 26 mark.
A low, all-pervading hum filled the air. He couldn’t see what was
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