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Sorry
Shaun Whiteside
Zoran Drvenkar
Berlin. Four friends. One extreme idea.One of the most gripping thrillers ever written.Kris, Tamara,Wolf and Frauke set up an agency called Sorry. An agency to right wrongs. Unfair dismissals, the wrongly accused: everyone has a price, and Sorry will find out what it is. It’s as simple as that.What they hadn’t counted on was their next client being a cold-hearted killer. But who is the killer and why has he killed? Someone is mocking them and hell is only just beginning.
About the Book (#ulink_68819784-97bf-53fe-bab7-6f9d75436d78)
Berlin. Four friends. One extreme idea.
Kris, Tamara,Wolf and Frauke set up an agency called Sorry. An agency to right wrongs. Unfair dismissals, the wrongly accused: everyone has a price, and Sorry will find out what it is. It’s as simple as that.
What they hadn’t counted on was their next client being a cold-hearted killer. But who is the killer and why has he killed? Someone is mocking them and hell is only just beginning.
‘Sorry is the kind of thriller, the kind of novel, that doesn’t come along every day … It’s that oft-cited but very rare species of novel we call a page-turner, and it brilliantly achieves this because Drvenkar knows how to use all the tools at his disposal, to excellent effect’
New York Times
‘For those with quick minds and strong stomachs, Sorry is an impressive début’
The Times
‘A cleverly plotted, switchback read’
Guardian
‘This thriller breaks with all conventions, topping all expectations … Fast paced and in deadly good style. A joy to read, a piece of art’
Die Welt
‘It’s the kind of book for a Friday evening, with the rest of the weekend free, because not much else will be able to compete for your attention’
wordswithoutborders.org
‘A brilliant story that’s as gruesome as it is philosophical’
Easy Living
‘Shocking, compelling, disturbing … there are many apologies in Sorry, but lovers of the dark side will have no regrets’
Michael Robotham, author of Shatter
‘It’s rare that a book in the crime fiction genre can break all the writing conventions and yet keep you on the edge of your seat until the bitter end … Drvenkar breaks the mould with Sorry … A master of his craft’
Courier Mail, Australia
‘This is what thrillers should be about. Taut, tense and terrific, Sorry is a cracking read’
Sean Black, author of Gridlock
‘This highly original, dark and sinister thriller breaks all the rules … it delivers something thrillingly different’
lovereading.co.uk
‘You need to be prepared and ready to read Sorry. Ready for the brave experiment in writing not seen before in this genre, and ready for an extraordinary plot’
Berliner Zeitung
‘One of the best German language thrillers ever. And certainly the most original in years’
Krimi-couch.de
‘Drvenkar is good at social networks – we believe in his characters and how they relate to one another’
TLS
‘This is a very clever, dark read … Drvenkar [is] a writer to watch’
Booklist
‘A challenging, insightful thriller … Drvenkar adroitly keeps the reader in the dark as he unravels a horrific story of child sexual abuse, savage revenge, and retribution’
Publisher’s Weekly
About the Author (#ulink_481818f5-fe0f-55c8-ac16-b3ea2cff36b7)
Zoran Drvenkar was born in Croatia in 1967 and moved to Germany when he was three years old. He has been working as a writer since 1989. He is the author of many prize-winning books for children and young adults. His new adult thriller, Du (You), has just been published in Germany and will be published by Knopf and Blue Door in 2013.
For all the very good, dead friends.I miss you.
A good apology is like a farewell,when you know you won’t see each other again.
Table of Contents
Title Page (#u500fc3a0-a10c-51b5-9c77-8265e9c2e48d)
About the Book (#uada0395c-e101-5b21-bf50-304a8ea1dfe4)
About the Author (#uec1f04c8-640b-5c2b-80ad-563e76ed8cb2)
Dedication (#u9007b074-7821-5fcd-8902-263fc725fbbf)
In Between (#u82eb6989-1a60-56a1-9ba4-6e27060d3947)
Part I (#uf33fc320-0c1d-5e82-8504-395b2fe0bdba)
After (#u2117c506-27fa-5265-ad92-db6c14579767)
Before (#ub47a635f-24e3-5c52-b691-b7c675f8b135)
Part II (#u1e38072d-2db1-500a-978d-76e56234641c)
After (#u169fcb3f-c458-5ba5-9922-53b4db0a6614)
Before (#u5857eabc-cee6-58ea-a0e7-22419dd30db4)
Part III (#u62d64466-8246-520b-9d1e-fff8aa0e8c0b)
After (#uc9784ba5-73aa-5fea-9ff4-4f42f21158a4)
Before (#uf2f3cb09-9e9f-57fc-9246-dc15961b00c2)
Part IV (#uf1e705b0-7cee-5e34-971a-c481fce06313)
After (#u231378ff-f999-5cde-b8c2-c6b47e063ccd)
Before (#u6e0c3e92-861d-5fcd-aaac-3f35c26c22f4)
Part V (#ub8daded8-7e98-5ad2-8ded-3d82920bd13c)
After (#ub048a8a3-d3b4-5466-ad41-b192f7a12bf0)
Before (#u83dde12d-7531-5105-a7fc-ed5ffc086761)
Part VI (#u532c3c4e-6997-5c4e-9554-02d76ad856aa)
After (#u4e735740-8abd-5ddc-849c-6ead27626d66)
Before (#uae5fe387-dc7c-5601-b757-60c2c53ec08a)
Part VII (#u9b53ec29-7e64-5cee-b3b6-d60b586cacc3)
After (#u339e3df6-ab84-5fab-a30b-40c4cd9f3a75)
Before (#u8c4b8363-b0aa-58da-83e9-ca784eb493dc)
Part VIII (#u97b27e58-65d5-595a-b8f8-98bb4162acf2)
After (#ufc841d59-a875-5dcf-ae34-65b6714ef68c)
Before (#u6c45bfd6-ba14-5889-8202-94573b6ee65c)
After (#uc2e5ed0c-195a-5075-98d3-6d57bfdb6b22)
My Thanks To (#uf3ad9965-915d-5bd3-8550-9873efedb291)
A Note About The Translator (#u92133f2c-783b-5efc-a8b8-12249a1909e0)
A conversation with Zoran Drvenkar (#u6ffa4288-5410-5df1-8351-f0ab0c61f1e4)
Copyright (#u75bfb1ae-e045-561e-910c-3e9ee72f0dfd)
About the Publisher (#u65507c8a-8667-5c1b-b328-98cd9ac0978c)
In Between (#ulink_ea6aa746-da30-5718-9b27-65b755b31d35)
YOU
YOU’RE SURPRISED how easy it is to track her down. You’ve been hiding in such a deep hole that you thought nothing was possible any more. You lost yourself more and more, and when you thought you’d never see light again, his other address book fell into your hands. He had two; you didn’t know that either. There was so much you didn’t know about him.
One address book is bound in leather, the other is an octavo notebook like the ones you had in school. You happened to find the octavo notebook among a stack of magazines on his bedside table. It’s full of names. You counted them. Forty-six. You’re still filled with longing when you see his handwriting. Sloping to the right, with the despair of the left-handed. Your fingers wandered over names, addresses, and phone numbers as if you could sense what he felt as he was writing them down. Two of the names are underlined; they are the only names you know.
The day you found the octavo notebook, light entered your darkness. The names are the signs you were waiting for. Six months of waiting, and then this light. And how could you have known that sometimes one must search for a sign?
No one told you.
One of the two addresses is no longer valid, but that’s not a problem for you. You’re experienced in tracking people down. Our system works chiefly through information, and these days nothing is easier to get hold of. It took you two minutes. His wife moved to Kleinmachnow. On the map you find out that her new home is exactly three kilometers south of the old one as the crow flies. The new block is very much like the other one. We are creatures of habit. When we turn around we want to know what lies behind us. You wait patiently until one of the tenants leaves the building, then you climb to the third floor and ring.
“Yes, who is it?”
She’s in her late forties and looks as if the last few years have been a long, tough journey that she had to travel on her own. It doesn’t matter what she looks like, you’d have recognized her anywhere. Her posture, her voice. You’re surprised that you’ve internalized her gestures. You have never had a relationship with this woman, but everything about her is familiar to you. The way she leans forward when she looks at you, the narrowing of her eyes, her quizzical expression. Every detail has burned itself so deeply into you that it’s more than just memory.
“Hello,” you say.
She hesitates for a moment. She isn’t sure whether you’re a threat. You’d like to ask her what kind of threat turns up in broad daylight outside a block in Kleinmachnow and smiles.
“Do we know each other?”
Suddenly there’s interest in her eyes. You aren’t surprised. She’s a curious person; even if she can’t place you, she doesn’t show a trace of suspicion. The most dangerous people aren’t suspicious, they’re interested. You know that expression. As a child you studied an accident on the highway. All that blood, the broken glass, firemen running around, flames and oily black smoke. Every time you drove past the place of the accident with your parents afterward you felt that same excitement.
This is where it happened. Can you still spot anything? Is it all gone?
She looks at you the same way.
“We know each other from before,” you say and hand her the photograph. “I just wanted to say hello.”
You know that as soon as she sees the photograph she’s going to be filled with panic. Perhaps she’ll shut the door. She’ll probably deny it.
She surprises you, as she has always surprised you. She’s good at surprises, because she’s unpredictable.
“It’s you!”
A moment later she opens her arms and gives you a warm, safe hug.
In the apartment she explains that her husband will be back around six—there’s more than enough time. You know she’s divorced, and her ex lives near Bornholm. It’s good that she’s pretending to trust you. Any insecurity is good.
You sit down in the living room. From where you’re sitting you can look out at the balcony. A table, no chairs. Beside the table a sculpture. A boy lowering his head, hands clasped in prayer. You’ve noticed sculptures like that at the hardware store. Some of them hold books, others have wings on their backs. You look quickly away, you feel dazzled, although the sun shines down pale and weary today.
“Would you like something to drink?”
