Authors: Mikkel Birkegaard
I nodded, straightened up as the deckchair groaned and shook his hand. It was dry and warm and I realized I hadn’t been in physical contact with another person for several weeks.
‘But … as we’re neighbours and all that’ – he pulled the book out of the bag – ‘please could I have an autograph?’
I gestured to one of the plastic garden chairs.
‘Yes, please,’ he said quickly and sat down.
‘Would you like a beer?’ I asked in a croaky voice, pointing to my stock under the garden table. I was offering not because I wanted to, but because I felt I had to.
‘No, thank you. I’ve already got some.’ He rattled the bag and the bottles clinked invitingly.
A huge wave of relief washed over me. I’d been dreading he was yet another scrounger, just like the people I had fled.
‘By the way, my name is Bent,’ he said, taking out a bottle of Fine Festival beer.
‘Frank,’ I volunteered, nodding towards the book he had placed on the garden table.
Bent grinned. ‘Yeah, mate, I worked that one out.’ He produced a bottle opener, polished to perfection by frequent trips in and out of his back pocket. He opened the beer, put the bottle top in the plastic bag and carefully removed any foil left around the bottleneck.
‘Cheers, neighbour.’ He held out his bottle to me. I held out mine and we toasted. While I drank, I watched how his Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed nearly half the beer.
‘Ah,’ he sighed when he finally removed the bottle from his lips.
I got up to fetch a pen and when I came back, Bent was busy opening the next beer.
‘I’m not usually much of a reader,’ he said. ‘But I just loved that shit. Bloody brilliant book!’
‘Thank you,’ I said, taking the book. It was a paperback, tattered and yellowed by the sun. My photo was on the back and I was struck by how serious I looked. My beard was trimmed with a ruler and my dark hair brushed back, smooth and a tad glossy like a 1930s crooner. However, it was the eyes that surprised me the most. They stared coldly and a little provocatively from the back of
the
book and I remember how hard it had been to look so aloof. There had been absolutely nothing to be cross about. After all, I had written a book Finn had assured me would be a bestseller, I was married to the loveliest woman in the world and had an angel of a daughter. The photo had been taken only four years ago, but it felt as if it was from a parallel universe, one where I was a successful author and not a bum.
‘A really good book,’ Bent repeated. ‘Gory details. Wicked descriptions of the murders, wicked!’
I flicked through the pages in my mind’s eye while he carried on praising the book. Several pages were dogeared. At the start, they were close together, but later in the book the distance grew and the last quarter had no folded corners at all. I signed my name and handed the book back.
‘Thanks a lot, Penpusher,’ he said holding it to his heart. ‘Viggo and Johnny wanted to borrow it, but I said no, and I won’t let them have it now, no way. They can buy their bloody own.’ He carefully returned the book to the bag as if it was as fragile as the bottles. ‘I’ve started another one. I can’t really remember the name of the guy who wrote it, but it’s not a patch on yours.’
Looking back, that first meeting with Bent, the sight of the turned-down corners and especially the frequency of them, was crucial for my return to writing. I told myself I had done a good deed. A heathen had been converted to the true faith. A non-reader had been converted to a reader and, better still, one of
my
readers. I was flattered. This wasn’t hollow praise from colleagues or the jet set, but a
totally
spontaneous gesture, as if I had found a source of pure water in a desert with nothing but poisoned wells.
Not that we were drinking water. We drank the bottles we had and Bent went off for fresh supplies several times. For the first time since my arrival, I opened the book crates. I wanted to introduce him to my favourite readings. Soon the floor was covered with books. He had reignited my voice and I let it talk and talk, words that had built up in the past weeks poured out of my mouth without me censoring what I said. I think I spoke completely over his head, but he showed no sign of being bored – on the contrary. I gave him a copy of
Inner Demons
and told him he could borrow books from me any time he wanted to.
Bent introduced me to the others on the stones in front of the shop and in the weeks that followed I became a member of their circle. I learned about Bent’s army career, which later formed the basis for
A Bullet in the Chamber
, and gained insight into Viggo’s and Johnny’s lives as long-term unemployed in an area otherwise inhabited by wealthy tourists and second-home-owners from the capital.
If meeting Bent inspired me to write again, then Viggo and Johnny gave me the motivation to get started. After only two weeks, they were repeating the same old stories, and I discovered to my horror that I was doing it too. I saw in them what I would become a few years from now if I didn’t do something to prevent it, and the thought frightened me.
Overnight I reduced my alcohol intake drastically – in fact, I switched to whisky, a marked contrast to my usual menu of beer and schnapps. It was partly a return to what used to be my favourite tipple while I wrote. The taste
of
good whisky alone seemed to revive my writing brain cells.
I started planning
A Bullet in the Chamber
. It was the perfect comeback book. I wouldn’t even need to leave the cottage to carry out research; all I had to do was wait for Bent to stop by with his bag of Fine Festival beer. He did so every day and the book quickly took shape.
I even ventured to contact Finn to tell him to expect something and his relief was palpable. When I left Copenhagen, he had been forced to turn down a number of interviews and opportunities to promote
Inner Demons
, but my disappearance had in itself been a great story. Sales had benefited from the coverage, admittedly fairly critical and condescending, of the missing author and Finn himself had been interviewed about my sudden exit. He knew very well where I was and probably why I had left, but he stuck to the vanishing act story and didn’t shy away from telling everybody about it.
The urge to promote myself or the book didn’t return along with the urge to write it. I discovered the optimum working method for me: isolation and a mixture of fixed writing times, physical labour in the garden or the cottage and someone to drink with when I wanted to. My life played out within a fifteen-minute walk that contained the cottage, the shop and the beach where I strolled when I needed fresh air.
I needed nothing more, only my imagination.
A Bullet in the Chamber
was a story about soldiers in Iraq. The book wasn’t at all political, but the foreign setting, the discipline and the secrecy between interpreters,
soldiers
and their superiors inspired me to write a Ten Little Indians-style murder mystery about a group of men who are isolated at a guard post at the Iraqi border. The deaths initially look like accidents, but the killings become more and more brutal and eventually the men can no longer ignore the facts. As their numbers diminish, an atmosphere of distrust builds up and accusations fly between the soldiers. The victims begin to be mutilated, suggesting a religious motive. The obvious suspect, the interpreter Maseuf, is lynched by the frenzied group who literally rip him to pieces, but when another murder is committed it becomes a fight for survival among the men who are left. When they are down to two, the real hero of the book, Bent Kløvermark, traps the killer in a minefield where he dies and Bent himself loses a leg.
When the script was finished, I was pleasantly surprised. It was quite a respectable pile of paper, 325 pages, and they proved I could at least still call myself a writer now that I had been stripped of the title of husband and father.
WHOEVER HAD LEANED
the book against Linda Hvilbjerg’s front door – and it had to be the killer – hadn’t bothered wrapping it. No envelope this time and nor did I need to turn it over to know which book it was. I recognized my breakthrough novel,
Outer Demons
, from the back alone.
I took a step back and stared at the book. My heart started to pound. The sense of being under surveillance returned. It was as if someone was watching me from a control room with monitors everywhere to display every reaction of my body and face and microphones to pick up every sound I uttered. Graphs illustrated my pulse, sensors registered my sweat production and body temperature, and an emoticon conveyed the information about my current state of mind.
Right now the emoticon would signal horror. It would look like
The Scream
by Edvard Munch.
But I didn’t scream. I was too scared to scream.
Minutes before I opened the door, I had been ready to go to the police and tell them everything. I was prepared to run the risk that they might imprison me, suspect me
of
murder – not unreasonably – and I had braced myself for long painful interrogations in a dark interview room with bright lights, good cop/bad cop routines and all the other clichés.
The book changed everything.
Even before I opened it, I knew I couldn’t go to the police. I knew that whatever I was about to find out would mean I couldn’t talk to anyone. When I discovered the book with Linda’s photo at Hotel BunkInn, I had believed it would give me a head start, that I could anticipate the killer’s next move and would have enough time to do something about it, but now it seemed to me that I had fallen in with the killer’s plan. It had always been his intention that I would contact Linda and put myself in a situation where I would be the one to discover her body.
But the game wasn’t over yet. That was what the book was telling me. It signalled that I had no will of my own, but would have to keep on playing for as long as the killer was entertained.
Outside birds were chirping. A breeze wafted mild air through the hall, a welcome change to the smell of death in the living room.
I looked up from the book and across the street. There was no one around. The area seemed deserted by all other life forms except birds. Only the trees moved in the wind, scattering autumn leaves on the pavement.
Slowly, I took a step forwards and knelt down. Still looking across the street, I picked up the book and pulled it towards me. I stood up, stepped back, closed the door softly and locked it. The sound of birdsong disappeared.
I went back to the living room and sat down in the chair.
Linda
’s body was hanging with her back to me as if she had turned away in contempt. I turned the book over with shaking hands and realized I had been right. It was
Outer Demons
, a cheap paperback copy, but apparently unread, like the other greetings the killer had sent me.
I found the photo roughly halfway through the book. My heart stopped.
If I hadn’t just seen my daughter, Ironika, at the book fair, I would probably have struggled to recognize her from the picture. She seemed very grown-up, but in that slightly affected way children sometimes have when they mimic their parents. Her eyelids were dark and she wore a little blusher on her cheeks. Her hair was carefully tousled and she had a challenging, almost defiant expression in her blue eyes. A curtain or a rug hung in the background, and the lighting was simple but professional. It looked like a school photo.
I turned the photo over. The name of the photographer, Inger Klausen, the name of her company, K-Foto, and their telephone number were listed on the back. At that moment, I hated Inger Klausen for even having looked at my daughter.
I put the book and the picture of my daughter on the table in front of me and buried my face in my hands. A howling sound started to build up inside me and it travelled up to my chest. It couldn’t be suppressed, but rolled out through my throat and mouth. My entire body shook from crying, despair and impotence.
I clenched my hands, stood up and screamed at the ceiling. The sound frightened me, but gave me some relief, so I carried on until I had no more air left in me.
The
tears were streaming down my cheeks and a mix of wailing, shouting and snarling erupted from my throat.
I went over to Linda’s body, stood in front of her frozen face and howled as loud as I could. A last remnant of self-control prevented me from bashing away at her.
‘What do you want?’ I yelled. ‘What is it you want?’
Linda Hvilbjerg didn’t reply. She only stared stubbornly back at me.
It started to get dark outside. The living room turned grey and alien and its designer furniture was reduced to unrecognizable shapes. The stench of death and decay was pronounced. I could no longer ignore it and ultimately I think that was what drove me on.
With the police out of the picture, I didn’t need to worry about leaving the house, or the crime scene as it now was, undisturbed. Besides, I owed Linda Hvilbjerg some respect. I took off my jacket and the shirt I’d taken from Linda’s wardrobe, and went out into the kitchen to fetch a knife. In the living room I cut Linda down and carried her upstairs. She was heavy, heavier than anything I had ever carried, and when I laid her down on her bed, my naked upper body was covered in sweat and blood. I removed the paper from her mouth, closed her eyes and pulled the duvet over her. At the door to the bedroom I gave her a final glance.
I washed myself again, put the shirt and jacket back on and picked up the novel before I left the house.
Linda owned a Mercedes Smart, one of those cars you can park in a phone booth and costs a small fortune despite its size. I didn’t know where to go. The smell of death
haunted
me and I was aware of the state of my clothes. First I had to find something clean to wear.
The engine started at once and I headed for the city centre. It was early Sunday evening, and there were few people in the streets of this Copenhagen suburb.
Close to the local railway station, I found what I was looking for. A Salvation Army charity shop was located in the basement of an older building facing Vigerslev Allé. The steps leading down to the shop were piled high with black bin bags, donations from well-meaning people who thought that others might find a use for the 1980s bell-bottoms they had now definitively outgrown.