Bad Intentions

CHAPTER 14

Axel Frimann had his own office in the advertising agency Repeat, and he had personally designed its elegant interior. That was how he saw himself: he had style and class – and most people agreed with him. This was Axel Frimann’s kingdom. In here he ruled supreme, in here he was creative and inspired, in here he would seduce people through the power of advertising, and he was an expert. He understood its psychology and mechanisms. He knew the power of humour and the importance of laughter, which made people open up, allowing the message to pour in, slip past every barrier. He was doodling on a notepad when one of his colleagues entered.

‘It looks like we’re getting the new razor account,’ he said. ‘It’s made in Norway. It’s called Hellrazor. Cool name, don’t you think?’

He waved a sheet of paper. ‘They hope to force Gillette out of the Norwegian market, no less, and that’s why they’ve hired us. So you know what your remit is. And they don’t want us replicating an old pompous approach. We’ve got to come up with something completely new.’

‘Hellrazor?’ Axel enthused. ‘The razor from hell. Those guys have a sense of humour, we can work with that.’

He snatched the sheet. He studied the picture and the text, the razor, its features and hyped-up superiority.

‘Let me guess,’ he said. ‘Hellrazor shaves closer than any other razor?’

His colleague shrugged. ‘I presume so. After all, it’s brand new.’

Axel shook his head and smiled. ‘But, really, how much closer can they shave?’

His colleague gave him a baffled look. ‘I suppose they’re using new and better materials,’ he said. ‘Who cares? All we’ve got to do is make sure it sells, and better than Gillette, if possible.’

‘Then this is my idea,’ Axel said, ‘to get the message across once and for all.’

He reclined in his chair and took a deep breath.

‘A couple is asleep in bed. Black silk bed linen, white walls and curtains. Sun beaming through the window. Are you listening?’

‘Yes,’ his colleague said.

‘The alarm clock goes off, the man wakes up and embraces his beloved. He is unshaven, so we add a horrible rasping sound effect – sandpaper on sandpaper for example. The woman pushes him away and goes into the bathroom. He follows her. The bathroom’, he added, ‘has black tiles and recessed lighting. White china suite from Porsgrund and a lily in a wall-mounted vase. The man puts on a dressing gown and stands in front of the mirror. He picks up the razor while she cleans her teeth.’

Axel Frimann paused.

‘And then?’ his colleague said. ‘What happens?’

‘He’s finished shaving. He goes to her for another hug. After all, he’s just shaved. But above the collar of his dressing gown all we see is his skull.’

‘Eh?’

‘The razor has gone right to the bone,’ Axel said. ‘All we see is his smooth, white skull. And then a voiceover at the end: “Hellrazor. You’ll never have a closer shave.”’

‘Pull the other one,’ his colleague responded. ‘It’s got bells on.’

‘I’m deadly serious,’ Axel Frimann said. ‘That kind of ad would match the name, and we’re talking about a bloody close shave, aren’t we? So we’ll give them a skeleton. We’ve got to address a younger, trendier market, and humour is very important.’

His colleague disappeared, slamming the door behind him. Ten seconds later he opened it again and looked in.

‘That’s not an ad,’ he said. ‘It’s a mockery.’

He disappeared for the second time. Axel, however, was delighted with the idea. An ad like this would get everyone talking because it was outrageous, daring and witty. It would win awards. He chewed his pen. The violent burst of creativity had left him, he was alone and it grew silent around him. The silence made him feel like he was floating. He was overcome by the urge to bark orders, slam his fist on the table, bang on a door to show he was still here and still in charge. Something had started to trouble his otherwise tightly controlled universe: a tiny prickle when someone knocked on the door, a pounding heart whenever the telephone rang. A feeling that someone was following him when he walked down the street, a new awareness of sounds and footsteps, at night thoughts of detectives in an office discussing whether Jon really killed himself. Axel Frimann was restless. The light from the window irritated him, and then the silence was broken by a series of noises from the big building, doors slamming, telephones ringing, someone laughing – what the hell were they laughing at?

His world was cracking up, flaking like dry paint. He experienced a heightened sensitivity everywhere as if life, which had so far never touched him, was suddenly sticking needles into his body. He raised his hands and studied them closely: the pale skin on his palms, the fine lines. Many of the lines were broken, weren’t they? He leaned forward and rested his head on the desk, pressing his cheek against the warm wood. He picked up the scent of oak and furniture oil. I’m sitting here, Axel Frimann thought, and I’m alive. How does the body know when the end has come? Who decides when the heart beats for the last time, is there a code deep inside us, a limited amount of energy which we can consume, as when you wind up a toy?

Axel Frimann was not used to contemplating death. It made him edgy. His heartbeat felt a little irregular, he thought, his forehead clammy. He was also aware of a slight toothache, a molar in his lower jaw, only mild pain, though, of no consequence. He straightened up in his chair. Baffled, he stroked his chin. Yes, intermittent pain as though a tiny creature lived inside his tooth. He imagined a tadpole wiggling, not constantly, but at regular intervals. It became a more niggling pain, or rather it was like a faint vibration at the root of the tooth. He bent over his papers to continue his work, trying to focus on Hellrazor. He was still adamant that his skeleton in a dressing gown concept would work. But soon the niggling turned into more persistent pain. Axel Frimann felt a surge of irritation. He did not allow unexpected things to happen. Either I’ll have to go home, he thought, or I need to take some painkillers. This is bloody annoying.

He left his office and went outside, where his secretary, Ella, was sitting in front of her computer.

‘Do you have some paracetamol? Axel asked.

She gave Axel a warm smile and picked up her handbag. She rummaged in it for a moment. He could hear clattering from its depths.

‘Sorry, I’m afraid not. Try Margaret.’

Axel plodded down the corridor. His normally broad shoulders drooped. He knocked on Margaret’s door before entering. She was standing by the photocopier. Steam was coming from a mug of coffee on her desk.

‘What’s the matter?’ she asked.

‘I’ve got toothache,’ Axel explained. ‘Do you have some paracetamol? Or something stronger?’

‘Hang on, I’ll check,’ she said and sashayed over to her desk. She had no chance with Axel, but she had never stopped hoping, and her bottom was undeniably her best asset. She pulled out a drawer and searched among pens and paper. She dumped a pile of stationery on the table, a pair of scissors, a glue stick, sticky tape and a box of paperclips.

‘I usually have some,’ she said, ‘but I’ve run out. Ask Jørgen. Jørgen suffers from migraines. He’s bound to have an emergency supply.’

Axel Frimann knocked on Jørgen’s door.

‘Jesus Christ, what’s wrong with you?’

Axel slumped in a chair. He pressed his hand to his cheek and gave him a suffering look.

‘Something’s wrong with my jaw,’ he said. ‘I’ve got this stabbing pain. I think it’s an infected root, I can feel it all the way down my jaw. Do you have some paracetamol?’

But he left Jørgen’s office empty-handed too. Axel had to go back. He shuffled down the corridors, opening one door after another pleading his case like a beggar. There was the guy in the basement office, he remembered, who delivered the post. Didn’t he have rheumatism? And then there was Randi in the canteen, she was over sixty and must be afflicted by a range of ailments, wear and tear, he thought, pain in her neck and shoulders. The reception desk on the ground floor was staffed by a thin girl who always looked very pale. Her face was a mesh of green veins and her hands always trembled. Anaemic, he thought, and anorexic. Stress and possibly headaches. He wandered down the corridors, knocking on door after door, but everyone shook their head regretfully.

No one could put Axel out of his misery.