Authors: Mikkel Birkegaard
Then I got into the car and drove off.
I FOLLOWED THE
coast past Vejby, Tisvildeleje and on towards the west. In Hundested I caught the ferry across the fjord to Rørvig. The crossing only took twenty minutes, but I felt I was leaving behind an entire continent.
I found a holiday homes letting agency near Rørvig Harbour. The agent was delighted to have a customer this late in the season, but surprised that I needed a place immediately and that I paid cash, both the deposit and eight weeks’ rental. I chose a house with a sea view and relatively isolated from its nearest neighbours. Even outside the tourist season it was expensive, but the location was crucial.
I gave my name as Karsten Venstrøm, the name of the murdering psychologist from
In the Red Zone
. The agent wanted to chat, but I ignored him and completed the paperwork as quickly as I could. Twenty minutes later I got into my car with the keys to the house in my pocket.
I shopped in a supermarket in Nykøbing and quickly filled a shopping trolley with enough groceries for a couple of weeks if I rationed my supplies carefully.
Then I drove to the house, which lay further out on Odden.
It was a large house, far bigger than I needed, with a Jacuzzi, a sauna and a huge conservatory with a wood burner. It slept twelve, but I chose the smallest bedroom, where I unpacked my clothes and made my bed. I closed the doors to the other rooms and switched on the heating in the rooms I intended to use. I put the computer and printer at the end of an enormous dining table that seated at least ten. I checked my computer would start and that I could print. Everything worked.
Apart from the conservatory, there was a dining room, a living room and a television room with a wooden floor, black leather furniture and a fireplace. The television was a large flat-screen model. I turned it on and checked the text TV news. There was nothing about Verner or Linda. I left the television on while I went back to the car. I was able to remove the registration plates with my hands and I threw them both into the boot. Then I drove the Corolla further into the grounds so it couldn’t be seen from the road.
Afterwards I walked around the area. Most of it was covered by heather or trees. The nearest house was over two hundred metres away and there were conifers in between to block the view across. The garden consisted of a lawn, decking and a shed containing garden furniture, a round barbecue, a lawnmower and other gardening tools.
Back in the house the heating from the electric radiators had kicked in, but I lit a fire in the television room all the same. I switched the television to the news channel and fetched a bottle of whisky I had bought in
the
supermarket. I reclined in the soft leather armchair, a glass of whisky in my hand and the bottle within reach, and spent the next couple of hours following the 24-hour news. The murders weren’t mentioned; they only covered trivialities such as the Danish government’s budget negotiations and silly contributions to the immigration debate.
I proposed several toasts. I drank to my health and erupted in laughter every time. I felt confident. Step one of my plan had succeeded and I had a sense of being in control, or at any rate no longer mystified. That night I allowed myself to relax – a day of rest before the great exertions in the weeks ahead.
I didn’t need my bed that night. I fell asleep in the armchair in front of the television and I awoke to images of suicide bombers in the Middle East. Dusty streets filled the screen with people running around, crying and screaming about injustice and revenge. In Denmark they were still discussing the budget.
I switched off the television and didn’t turn it on again.
After a modest breakfast of a heated roll and coffee, I sat down in front of the computer. It started up with a slow humming. The envelope with my handwriting lay on the table. I opened it and took out the photograph. It was one of five pictures I had taken in the photo booth at Nordhavn station. My hair was a tad messy, my beard a little denser and stragglier than usual, but it was the eyes that attracted attention. They were empty and seemed to look into a dark place.
I leaned the picture against the screen.
The computer had finished starting up. The desktop was an old photo of the cottage taken one summer’s day. It was almost like sitting in my study in the Tower and looking out at the garden.
I opened the word-processing program and created a new document. This was always a special occasion, a little bit like a painter starting a new painting on a brand-new canvas, but this time I didn’t relish it. I missed the feeling of freedom that normally inspires me at the sight of a blank page. This time I knew precisely what I would be writing and it terrified me.
I took my letter from the envelope and placed it next to the keyboard.
It was a brief synopsis, written with trembling hands. The desperation and the terror seeped out from the jagged handwriting.
I copied the title from the letter to
see here
of the document:
I saved the document with practised keystrokes, an acknowledgement that there was no way back.
I took a deep breath and began …
‘Until recently I had only killed people on paper.’
I DIDN’T SLEEP
last night.
Eight days have passed since I sent this script to the box at Østerbro post office and two days since I received a reply. It was a postcard of the Little Mermaid. All the card had on it was today’s date. The postmark was Nykøbing, the largest town in the area, approximately fifteen kilometres away. I don’t know what to deduce from that. Is he staying locally? Am I under surveillance or was it some smokescreen? Ultimately, doesn’t matter.
I can feel that the time has come.
My body is in a heightened state of alert and nothing escapes my attention. I hear every sound, see every colour and feel the slightest gust of wind against my skin. It’s as if my entire being wants to absorb every single impression while it still can. My hands refuse to relax. They constantly seek surfaces and objects to touch and I register details of the tabletop and the windowsill that I hadn’t noticed before. The veins in the wood feel like mountain ranges and I detect unevenness in the polished marble surface. My taste buds deny me whisky, the taste is too sharp, and
I
discover nuances in the flavour of tap water I had never noticed before. I drink a lot of water. It tastes heavenly and my throat feels constantly dry.
Outside I watch the birds pecking at the breadcrumbs I have scattered. It’s almost as if I can hear their beaks split open the seeds in the bread. When they spread their wings and take off, I see them in slow motion and I tell myself I could catch them quite easily. I would be able to anticipate their every move and there is a suppleness in my muscles that convinces me I’m faster, better controlled than they are. A sudden urge makes me run around the garden. I feel the wind against my face and the grass under my bare feet. The exertion doesn’t affect me. My breathing is under control. I can hear the air pass in and out of my lungs and airways in a steady rhythm, like mechanical bellows.
When I go back inside, the stuffy air in the house nearly suffocates me. The air feels viscous and slows down my movements. I open all the windows and doors for fifteen minutes before the air is tolerable again. A faint scent of pine from the trees outside remains after the windows have been closed. I empty the bin, which smells of the fry-up I had yesterday. The fridge is empty, but that’s all right. Even though I’m hungry, I know that my taste buds won’t allow themselves to be touched by any old food and there is no prospect of a major gourmet experience in this area. Besides, I can’t leave the house.
I’m expecting guests.
The items we will need are laid out on the dining table. I pick up the scalpel and test the blade, even though I did so earlier this morning. It’s incredibly sharp and makes a
small
cut in my thumb. The blood seeps out in an evergrowing drop. I swear briefly, replace the scalpel and stick my thumb in my mouth as I head to the bathroom. I get the first-aid kit from the cabinet above the sink and find a plaster. Before I attach it, I run cold water over my thumb until it feels almost numb. When the plaster is in place, I study it closely to see if the blood is still running, until the absurdity of the situation dawns on me.
I start to laugh. I can’t stop. My laughter grows louder and louder and I have to leave the bathroom to find enough room for the sound of my merriment. The whole house resounds and dust is lifted by my outburst. I start to gasp for air and have just about managed to control myself when I happen to glance at my thumb and start laughing all over again.
At last I stagger, still laughing, back to the dining table to make myself stop. The sight of the objects has the required effect and my laughter fades. I wipe the tears from my eyes and blow my nose in a piece of kitchen towel. My throat feels raw again and I drink more water.
My gaze lingers on each item on the table. I have collected them from all over the house, the kitchen, the bathroom and a locked shed outside, which I broke into with the poker from the cast-iron stand next to the wood burner. Ordinary things and tools you would find in most holiday homes. This is what I do, this is my strength: turning everyday objects into something that can wipe the smile off anyone’s face.
The light outside is fading. The days are short in December. It occurs to me that it’s nearly Christmas. The
television
hasn’t been on since my first night here, but now I turn it on and I see that the whole world is excited about the holidays. They’re showing the old Christmas movies, and advertising breaks are packed with colourful promotions for must-have plastic toys waiting to gather dust in children’s bedrooms. My eyes spurn the flat television image. I switch it off.
During the short time I have watched television, the last of the daylight has died away. I’m annoyed at having missed it and turn on the lights in the house. The final light I switch on is the outdoor lamp, which signals I’m ready. Then I chuck more logs on the wood burner. A large stack of logs from the shed outside is piled up next to it. More than enough.
It’s nearly time.
I listen out, but all I can hear is the roaring in the wood burner and the wind in the trees outside.
The knock on the door startles me. It’s a loud, insistent knocking on the glass window in the front door. My heart races and I think I can hear the blood rush around my veins as I go to answer it. My hand grips the cold metal handle, I push it down and open the door. A cold wind slips past the figure standing outside.
You’re wearing an overcoat and in one hand you’re holding a white plastic bag with the items I was unable to get hold of and the script. Your other hand is buried in your coat pocket. It may be holding a pistol, but you have no intention of letting me know. The hand I can see is covered by a tight-fitting black leather glove.
This time you’re not wearing sunglasses. There is no need for disguises or guesswork any more. All masks are
off
. Only the writer and the reader are left, ready for the final act.
You look down at my hand and the thumb with the plaster. A smile forms around your lips and you might have quipped something like ‘Have you started without me?’, but I have decided there will be no dialogue.
What is there to say?
I step back so you can enter. You close and lock the door behind you, then you follow me. Your eyes scan the living room as we proceed through the house. I’m four or five steps ahead of you until we reach the dining room. My legs are trembling slightly, but I try to conceal it and sit down on the chair at the end of the dining table. It’s a solid wood chair with armrests and I place my arms on them and look at you apprehensively. You take a roll of gaffer tape from your bag and toss it to me.
I find the end and tear off a long section, which I use to tie my ankle to the leg of the chair. Then I tie my other ankle to the other chair leg. In the meantime, you’re standing some distance from me, watching my efforts closely. I tie my right arm to the armrest with difficulty. When I have done that, I place the tape on the table. You nod and feel safe enough to leave me while you check the other rooms in the house. You find nothing and return to the dining room.
From your bag, you pull out the bottle. It’s a 21-year-old Spring Bank whisky, drawn directly from the cask and almost impossible to get hold of.
With my free hand, I push the two glasses that I have set out earlier towards you. You fill my glass generously, pour a more moderate amount for yourself and sit down on
the
chair opposite me. We take our glasses, raise them and study the golden liquid before we drink. My taste buds welcome the whisky. I close my eyes and savour the taste. It’s round and mild and the aftertaste lasts for several minutes.
When I open them again, our eyes meet. You nod with approval before you take another sip. I follow your example and before long we have both emptied our glasses.
You get up abruptly, take my free hand and press my wrist against the armrest. You hold it in place with your knee while you tie my lower arm to the chair. Then you check the other bindings by pulling the tape, but find that you’re satisfied with my work.
You seem to relax more now that I’m tied up and you put your coat on one of the other chairs. You take out the script from the plastic bag, put it on a chair a bit further away and open it somewhere near the ending.
See here
is my guess. Then you go to the dining table and inspect the tools. I have arranged them in the order in which they will be used, the scissors first. You pick them up and start cutting away my right sleeve. It’s drenched in sweat and that makes it difficult for the scissors to cut through, but after some minutes my upper arm is exposed.
The tattoo has become a little blurred in time, like ink on poor-quality paper, but the ISBN number is still legible.