Scarred

Chapter 94

The morning has arrived with an unstable layer of clouds when Henning decides to go out and get some fresh air to clear his head. He spent most of last night on the sofa thinking. Then he got up and meandered around the room for a bit. Did some more thinking. Finally he was on the verge of losing his mind.

He buys himself a cold can of Coke and sits down in his usual spot below Dælenenga Club House. He thinks about Jonas again, about the evidence that slips away the moment he discovers it. Tore Pulli who might have had photographic proof of who entered Henning’s flat. All gone. And someone with an East European accent who went to the trouble of threatening Andreas Kjær so he wouldn’t disclose whatever it was that he knew. That evidence is probably gone as well. If Henning’s theory about the deleted Indicia report is correct, it might even be that that was the information which Kjær had. That Tore Pulli had taken pictures of the person or persons who set fire to Henning’s flat. He knows it’s a long shot, but right now he is clutching at straws.

As usual he is frustrated with himself for not being able to remember more of the weeks leading up to the fire. He recalls that it said ‘first and last warning’ on the note someone had pinned to the inside of his front door after starting the fire. But a warning against what? Why does his memory keep failing him?

Knowing that his mind has a tendency to short-circuit when confronted with painful or traumatic events, perhaps he should do something about it. Seek professional help? At least he is starting to remember more from his childhood. His memories of Trine have grown more vivid in the last few days.

And that’s the insight which makes him leap up.

Quickly he walks down from the seating planks, along the tarmac and through Birkelunden Park. He realises that it wasn’t until he started thinking about Trine properly that memories of the life they shared before their father died came back to him. Without even trying to he grew close to her again, he recognised feelings he’d had, thoughts he believed were long forgotten.

It all goes back to the fire, Henning thinks, now getting agitated while at the same time dreading what he has to do next. It’s the fire that is stopping him, the flames that are blocking his memories, and that is why he has to feel them on his body again. Just like his childhood memories started to return when he decided to help Trine.

He runs up the stairs and lets himself into his flat with only one thing on his mind.

To find the damned matchbox.

It is where he has tended to leave it recently, on the small table next to the sofa where he often sleeps. And he sits down, focusing all his attention on the rectangular box from hell, knowing that it contains an arsenal of weapons and that every single one of them is out to get him.

He realises that he has forgotten to replace the batteries in his smoke alarms, but the moment has passed and he knows it won’t make any difference now. Henning closes his eyes and summons up all the courage he can. Come on, he says to himself, you know what you have to do, just take out a match and strike it.

Henning steels himself before he opens his eyes, shutting out everything but the matchbox. He picks it up and weighs it in his hand before he opens it and sees them lie there, every single one of them. The soldiers from hell.

Henning takes one out; he stares at the slim matchstick, which looks so tiny and innocent between his thumb and index finger. Then he puts the head to the side of the box, holds it there, senses the friction build up between his fingers and spread to the box, but the matchstick refuses to budge.

Henning pauses before he makes a second attempt and this time he feels the matchstick scrape against the strip before he lets go. But there is no flame.

Okay, he says to himself. That’s one all.

He presses the head of the matchstick against the side of the box and again the box nearly wins. But suddenly he realises that the box and the matchstick are no longer in contact. And what he sees next makes him hold his breath.

A flame.

A proud, bright flame.

He stares at the red and orange tongue as it eats its way quietly down the wooden splinter. He can barely believe he has done it. At last he has slain one of his demons. But he still has one lap left. The most difficult. It’s not enough to light the match. His body must feel the flames.

His fingers are starting to hurt as the heat approaches, but he has only one thought in his head and that is to endure. To grit his teeth. Fight his instincts and reflexes, and hold on.

And that is exactly what he does, he clings to the tiny bit of pine that is slowly losing its fight against the flame that creeps ever nearer the end, eating its way towards Henning’s fingers, and he is shouting now, he screams because it hurts so much, it hurts like hell, but he doesn’t let go. Not until the match has burned itself out. And Henning has large, red burns on his index finger and thumb.

He gasps for air. When he opens his eyes again and looks at the shrivelled, pathetic remains of a fallen soldier’s brave fight, it is as if a curtain has lifted and the light shines on a blurred image.

And Henning sees.

He sees.

And now he remembers too.

‘Tore Pulli,’ he mutters as his fingers clench into a fist. ‘You bastard.’