Death Sentence (16 page)

We had always been honest about each other’s work. At the time of the Scriptorium, we could be merciless in our verdicts, at times so harsh that objects were thrown and doors were slammed, but Bjarne’s words didn’t upset me. What irritated me was that he didn’t understand.

‘Bjarne …’ I caught his eye and he seemed to realize that I was trying to tell him something important. At any
rate
, he shut up. ‘Two people,
real
people, have been murdered. They were killed because of me … or in ways which I have described.’

Bjarne stared at me as if he expected or hoped that I would start to laugh. When I didn’t, he cleared his throat.

‘Is that why you want to get hold of Mortis?’

I nodded.

‘It makes no sense,’ he said. ‘Mortis couldn’t kill anyone. Don’t you remember how thin he was? Nothing but skin and bones.’

‘And hatred,’ I added. ‘If the police were to ask me if I had any enemies, Mortis would spring to mind. I think he hated me with all his being.’

Bjarne shook his head. ‘He was jealous. There’s a difference.’

‘One thing can lead to another,’ I said. ‘I stole his woman and I was successful with—’

‘He wasn’t jealous of your books,’ Bjarne interrupted me. ‘On the contrary, he felt sorry for you. You know what he’s like, utterly uncompromising when it comes to literature. In his eyes, you had lost your way, you had strayed from the light and were on the road to hell. That was enough of a punishment for him.’

‘When did you last speak to him?’

Bjarne drank his brandy before replying.

‘Only a couple of months ago, actually. He called to ask if I wanted to buy some of his books.’ Bjarne closed his eyes and massaged a temple. ‘I declined. It’s not as if we need any more books, but …’

‘But?’

‘Well, it sounded as if he was in trouble.’ Bjarne sighed. ‘
It
didn’t occur to me until afterwards. I’ve tried to push it from my mind … until now.’

‘When did you last visit?’ I asked.

‘It’s been a long time. He lived in north-west Copenhagen then, 43 Rentemestervej, I looked it up, but I don’t know if he still lives there.’

‘I’ll find out,’ I said.

I have a sense of being halfway there.

Perhaps I’m being optimistic. Though I can see the road ahead, I know I will face further temptations in the second half. It will be difficult to resist shortcuts and leave out painful interludes, but I must persist, focus on the next step all the time.

My resolve is stronger than ever. I’m writing with greater confidence and I can work for longer periods without getting lost or taking breaks. Could it be that the critic is approaching? He has stepped out from the shadows and I sense him by my side, like a guide or a travelling companion.

But I’m alone.

I realize this when I look up from the screen and stare into the darkness. I listen out, but there is no advice or directions. My route is already determined and I must follow it if I’m to ever arrive.

So I turn my eyes back to the screen and take another step.

THE WEEKS THAT
followed the publication of
Outer Demons
went by in a blur of interviews, meetings and appearances. I was expected to have an opinion on anything and everything from school bullying to prison sentences and – surprise, surprise – violence as entertainment and means of artistic expression. I was invited to parties, gala premiers and talk shows and I went to most of them.

Book sales soared. Translation rights to some territories were sold by auction and several companies expressed an interest in the film rights.

Soon the sales figures and the hype were so colossal that even the arty television book show
On the Bedside Table
had to admit defeat and feature me in an interview. The host was Linda Hvilbjerg, a journalist I had seen several times at Café Viktor, Dan Turèll or one of the other bars where I had been partying in the wake of publication. We hadn’t spoken very much, but I got the impression she was a cold-hearted bitch. However, she was a stunningly attractive bitch. Dark, curly hair, brown eyes and a wide smile that almost blinded you. In the spirit of the
programme
she was discreetly dressed in a pale skirt and black blouse, which still managed to hint at a trim waist and a pair of firm, medium-sized breasts.

We met in the studio one hour before the start of the programme, which would be broadcast live. I was nervous. It was an important interview and I was intimidated by her. As I sat in make-up, my goal was just to get through it without her actually wiping the floor with me, so I was very surprised when she entered and greeted me profusely. She gave me a hug, praised my work and generally came across as open and approachable.

When the make-up artists had finished, Linda Hvilbjerg proceeded to offer me some of her own beauty powder, as she called it. She prepared four lines of white powder on a pocket mirror and quickly snorted two. Gripped by the mood and hoping to get my nerves under control, I took the other two. It didn’t take long before my anxiety had gone and I actually started looking forward to the interview.

We chatted and joked before we went on. I felt safe. It was as if we were sharing something important and I could tell her everything.

The studio consisted of two partitions with bookcases filled with fake book spines, a red velvet sofa for the guests and an armchair for the host. The style was elegant and subdued, with a deep carpet, standing lamps and dark colours. We sat down and while she reviewed her notes one final time, I took the opportunity to study my surroundings. Two cameramen were doing focus checks and beyond the cameras’ range there were cables everywhere and clusters of lights suspended from a grid in
the
ceiling. The crew seemed almost indifferent to us; as far as they were concerned we were merely part of the set.

The interview began and Linda Hvilbjerg opened by congratulating me on my success and the huge interest. Had I ever expected it? I replied – as I had done in the countless interviews I had given recently – that it was probably something you could never really prepare yourself for, but that I was enjoying it after having worked for it for a long time. We talked about the furore the book had caused and violence in the media in general. These were all questions I had been asked before and I knew the answers to them blindfolded, but even so, Linda, the atmosphere and – let’s not forget – her beauty powder made it resemble an intimate conversation rather than a hard-hitting interview. I gave more of myself than usual and felt good about it. She also flirted a little, which probably did no harm.

Halfway through the interview, she asked me how I managed to come up with all that horror and describe it in such detail that the images evoked were almost unbearable. I had answered that question before, but this time I didn’t fob her off with the standard answer.

This time I told her the truth.

Ironika was a huge part of my life when I wrote
Outer Demons
. My day revolved around her and, in her own way, she had been my inspiration. I would often carry her around the flat; she liked that. While she lay there, defenceless and filled with trust and love, I explored my greatest fear: what was the worst thing that could happen to her? Parenthood had changed my outlook on life, there was nothing I wouldn’t do for my daughter, and it
was
this total surrender that paved the way for an even stronger emotion: fear. What if anything happened to her? I conjured up my worst nightmares and examined my reaction. If I couldn’t bear to think about it happening to my daughter, I would use it in my book; otherwise I would dismiss it and carry on searching. To this end, I would wander around the flat rummaging through drawers for suitable instruments of torture and explore the most terrifying scenarios inspired by my fear.

The victims in
Outer Demons
were teenage girls, not infants, but the ideas behind what they were subjected to were rooted in my days with Ironika.

This was roughly the answer I gave Linda Hvilbjerg. A moment of silence followed and I detected a change in her eyes. Not revulsion or distance, but a kind of admiration or ecstasy. She carried on her line of questioning and asked about other sources of inspiration, which authors I read and who my role models were.

When the interview was over, I felt very pleased. Linda Hvilbjerg was downright elated. She claimed it was one of the best interviews she had ever done and she thanked me warmly. Her eyes had taken on a relentless aggression, a hunger that made me feel a little uneasy.

Intoxicated by her beauty powder and flattering attention, I was persuaded to go to a party with her. She had her party clothes in her dressing room and used the studio’s facilities to get ready. In the meantime I was installed in a sofa with a gin and tonic and a pile of magazines.

When Linda Hvilbjerg came out from make-up, she was transformed. The discreet bluestocking was gone and in her place there stood before me a red-carpet beauty
in
a clinging dark dress, white earrings and her hair piled up.

Embarrassed, I apologized for my own appearance, but she wouldn’t hear of it, grabbed me by the arm and led me to a waiting taxi.

The party was held in Nørrebro in a large artist’s studio that had been taken over by an advertising agency and turned into their offices. There wasn’t a desk in sight. The floor had been cleared and lights mounted on the ceiling beams high above us. Professional DJs created an impenetrable wall of electronic music. Linda knew many of the people there, and I could make out a few familiar faces, but it was impossible to have a conversation.

We knocked back a couple of green cocktails and tried to dance, but we soon agreed that we were in need of something stronger. Linda gestured towards the lavatories and we made our way through dancing guests and conversations being shouted between frocks and suits.

The party covered both floors of the building, so we went downstairs where the noise level was lower and there was no queue for the lavatories. A few clusters of people who had escaped the pandemonium were hanging around. They stared hungrily after Linda as we passed them by.

The lavatory was newly renovated with black wall and floor tiles and large mirrors over square sinks with brass taps. There were three cubicles, all vacant, and we chose the furthest. I locked the door and Linda took out her pocket mirror from her handbag. She set up four lines while I rolled a one-hundred kroner note into a tube. We took turns snorting the lines.

As I snorted the last one, Linda threw back her head, closed her eyes and inhaled deeply with a huge smile on her lips. She giggled, opened her eyes a little and looked at me through the narrow cracks.

‘Do you know something?’ she said, resting her hands on my shoulders.

‘You’re really a man?’

Linda Hvilbjerg giggled again. ‘You’d like that, wouldn’t you?’

‘Not at all,’ I replied quickly and placed my hands on her hips. ‘What a waste that would be.’

‘Your book is crap,’ she stated boldly.

‘OK,’ I replied and removed my hands as if I had burned myself.

She merely laughed. ‘But you know something?’ She took my hands and put them back on her hips. ‘It made me so horny.’

I let my hands glide around her back and over her buttocks. They tensed slightly as I grabbed them. I could feel through the flimsy fabric that she wasn’t wearing any knickers.

‘And what did you do about it?’ I asked in a thick voice. The drugs were starting to work; Linda seemed to glow and my penis strained against my trousers.

‘I took the book with me to bed.’ She started unbuttoning my shirt. Her hands found their way in and brushed my chest before moving down to the waistband of my trousers. ‘I lay down completely naked,’ she carried on, while her fingers undid my belt buckle. ‘And read the best sections while I touched myself.’

I started pulling up her dress, inch by inch.

‘I imagined it was me who was lying there, tied up.’ She sighed when she finally released my penis, which willingly jumped to freedom. ‘Me being fucked … everywhere … and not being able to stop it.’

Her dress was now up so much so that I could reach her groin with my hand. Her body twitched when I touched her labia and she grasped the root of my dick with a grip that threatened to cut off the blood supply.

‘I came like a fucking train,’ she whispered, lifting up one leg and placing her foot on the cistern to give me better access. ‘This is my way of saying thank you.’

It may have been the drugs, but sex with Linda Hvilbjerg was the kinkiest I had ever had. It was not passionate as with Line, but wild and demanding as if the world was about to end. The sweat poured from us and we gasped for air when we finally came. I collapsed on the toilet seat with my trousers around my ankles and she sat astride me, with my penis still inside her.

Linda laughed quietly between her heavy breathing.

‘That’s going to hurt in the morning,’ she said.

Morning. Suddenly it dawned on me that there was a tomorrow, a day with a wife, a child and work. A life with people who meant the world to me. It was as if my body expelled me and I floated up above the cubicle where we were sitting and observed the tawdry scene below. The attraction vanished. My penis shrivelled and withdrew from Linda’s body. The bile rose in my throat and I felt so woozy I had to close my eyes.

When I opened them again, Linda was fixing her hair. Her face and throat were still a touch flushed.

‘I’ll see you upstairs,’ she said, leaning forward to give me a quick kiss before she left the lavatory.

All I could think about was getting out of there. I stood up, my legs shaking, and pulled up my trousers. My shirt was soaked in sweat and my trembling hands could barely button it. I gave up trying to stuff it inside my trousers and went outside. It was cold and I skulked along the buildings until I found a taxi. I wished the trip would last all night and delay the meeting with my real life, but I was home in an instant.

I hesitated. My heart pounded and sweat was dripping from my forehead again. It was just after midnight and Line had probably gone to bed. I inhaled deeply a couple of times, slipped the key in the lock and carefully opened the door. It was dark, but I refrained from switching on the light. Having closed the door behind me, I stepped out of my shoes and peeled off my jacket. I sneaked over to the door to Ironika’s bedroom and peered inside. Despite the darkness, I could see she wasn’t in her bed. When I wasn’t at home, she would sometimes sleep in the double bed with Line, so I tiptoed to the master bedroom. I held my breath and listened out. There was no sound. Slowly, holding out my hands, I walked through the darkness towards the place where the bed was.