Death Sentence

16

‘IT’S A BIT early to be drinking, isn’t it?’

Ironika gave me a reproachful look as I poured myself a glass of beer from the keg in the backroom behind ZeitSign’s stand. She had shoulder-length hair, dyed black, and wore slightly too much eyeshadow over her blue eyes. A tight black blouse emphasized her teenage breasts and a red gingham miniskirt over black tights with ‘random’ holes revealed her long, pretty legs. She was Line’s daughter all right, and it was becoming more obvious the older she got.

‘I had an early start,’ I replied and drank nearly half the beer before topping up my glass. ‘Besides, it’s been a bad day.’

‘Great, thanks,’ Ironika said and sipped her mineral water, the only thing she wanted from ZeitSign’s bar even though it was lukewarm.

‘Yes, until now, of course,’ I said, by way of a save, and smiled. ‘It’s good to see you.’ That was a lie. I would have preferred her not to see her father hungover and on the verge of a nervous breakdown. It was more than seven years since I had last seen her, apart from the photographs on my parents’ walls.

‘I’m here with some friends,’ she said. ‘And I thought I would stop by and get myself an autograph.’ She waved the book.

‘Of course,’ I exclaimed and grabbed it while I set down my beer and fumbled in my inside pocket for a pen.

‘Have you read it?’

‘Not yet,’ Ironika replied. ‘But I’ve read a couple of the other ones even though Mum hides them.’

‘She hides them?’

‘Yes, she piles them up in her wardrobe, like that would stop us or Bjørn, but I always find them.’

‘Yes, you’ve always been bright,’ I said and smiled to her.

‘I don’t like them … The books, I mean.’

I tried to maintain my smile, but she must have seen that it grew somewhat rigid.

‘But that’s probably just because I don’t understand them,’ she added.

I shrugged. ‘They’re not really suitable for children.’

Her eyes hardened. ‘Frank, I’m not a child any more.’

‘No, you’re not,’ I said quickly. ‘It’s just so long ago …’

At that moment Finn Gelf burst into the cubicle.

‘Frank, are you ready …’ He spotted Ironika. ‘Oh … you’ve got a visitor,’ he said with a sideways smile.

‘This is my daughter, Veronika,’ I said. ‘You’ve met her before.’

‘Of course,’ Finn exclaimed and stuck out his hand to her. ‘But the last time you can only have been … three years old, I think, so you probably don’t remember me.’

Ironika shook her head, but she still took his hand and pressed it.

‘So your dad brought you along to the book fair?’

‘Nah, he’s at home,’ Ironika remarked dryly.

I swallowed a mouthful of beer to hide my irritation. Judging from the expression on Finn’s face, he wished the ground would open up and swallow him.

‘I’m here with some friends, Stine and Anna. We’re going shopping afterwards.’

‘Uhu, that sounds expensive,’ Finn laughed. ‘But if you fancy some books, just let me know. On the house.’

‘Thanks, but I don’t think so.’

‘OK,’ Finn replied and nodded. A small pause arose. Finally, Finn turned his attention to me. ‘Frank, the interview starts in fifteen minutes and I’ve got something I need to show you first.’

‘OK,’ I said. ‘Give me a couple of minutes.’

‘Of course,’ Finn said and held out his hand to Ironika. ‘Good to see you again. Give my best to Line.’

‘I will,’ Ironika replied.

Finn Gelf exited and left us alone.

‘Is she all right?’ I asked.

‘Mum? Yes, she’s fine. Sometimes she overreacts for no reason, but she’s OK as far as I know.’

‘And Mathilde?’

‘She’s started secondary school. Teacher’s pet, she is.’

We laughed. I drank my beer. Ironika sipped her mineral water.

‘Tell me, why did you two really split up?’ she asked me out of the blue.

I nearly choked on my beer.

‘I think she still loves you,’ Ironika carried on. ‘She cuts interviews and reviews of your books out of the newspapers, and sometimes I hear them arguing about you.’

‘Eh, that’s a long story,’ I stuttered.

‘Was it because of me?’

‘No, absolutely not!’ I set down my beer and grabbed her by the shoulders. ‘Please don’t ever think that. Everything that happened was my fault, no one else’s.’

Her face took on a frightened expression, so I let go of her instantly and took a step back. ‘I’m sorry.’

Ironika shook her head. ‘It’s OK.’

‘Listen … I’ve got to go now,’ I said, my voice filled with regret. ‘But perhaps we could meet some other time?’

‘Maybe,’ Ironika mumbled and looked down at her hands.

I reached into my jacket. ‘But I want to subsidize your shopping trip,’ I said, rummaging through my wallet.

‘No, it’s OK, Frank, you don’t have to do that.’

‘Yes, yes, I want to,’ I said and pulled out all the notes I could find. Three one-hundred kroner notes and a crumbled fifty. It wasn’t much, but it was the only cash I had on me. I offered it to her.

‘No, please don’t. It’s all right. Mum has given me some money.’

‘Take it, for my sake,’ I said. ‘It would make me happy.’

She shrugged and accepted the money.

‘Take care of yourself,’ I said and gave her an awkward hug.

‘You too,’ she replied.

‘And let’s meet up soon, properly, OK?’

‘I’m not sure. I don’t think Mum would like it.’

‘OK, but if you change your mind, you know where I am. Any time.’

Ironika nodded, opened the door and slipped outside and into the crowd. She glanced back and raised her hand by way of goodbye. I waved eagerly. When she had gone, I closed the door and flopped down on one of the folding chairs.

I cursed myself to hell. Just how pathetic could I be? I hadn’t seen my daughter for seven years and the first thing I do is drink in front of her, call her a child and then try to bribe her. What a crap dad I was! I knocked back the rest of my beer and stared at the empty plastic cup. The anger surged inside me. I crushed the cup and got up with a sense of purpose.

Finn Gelf always had something stronger than beer and mineral water at the book fair, so I went through the boxes until I found a bottle of Smirnoff. I took an empty cup, half filled it with vodka and swallowed a large gulp. The acrid taste made me grind my teeth, but I forced down another mouthful. It nearly came right back up again, but I managed to wash it down with what was left of Ironika’s mineral water.

At that moment, Finn opened the door to the cubicle.

‘Are you OK?’

I nodded and he entered and closed the door behind him.

‘Christ, she’s grown tall, hasn’t she?’ His eyes registered the bottle I had left on the table. ‘Listen, I’m really sorry I said that stuff about—’

‘It’s all right, Finn,’ I said and swallowed the last vodka in my cup. The alcohol was starting to take effect. A pleasant sense of lethargy spread through my body. ‘What did you want?’

Finn straightened up and a broad grin transformed his face.

‘The reviews,’ he exclaimed. ‘You’ve got to see the reviews!’ He took out a pile of newspapers with yellow Post-it notes sticking out. ‘Not at all bad … I mean compared to what we’re used to.’ One by one, he placed the newspapers on a small camping table and found the reviews of In the Red Zone.

Four newspapers in total had decided to review the book on the date it was published, which was fairly rare. Literary editors had been allocated extra column inches on account of the book fair, but it had happened to me several times that a few newspapers completely failed to review my books or did so several months after they had been published and then by some random trainee. The four reviews were critical, but not downright repelled as I had expected. One called the book ‘the best Føns since his breakthrough’ and another ‘vintage Føns’ and practically everybody agreed that fans of the genre wouldn’t be disappointed.

‘What have you got to say to that?’ Finn said when he could no longer keep his excitement at bay. ‘Great, isn’t it?’

I nodded, but failed to be carried away by his exhilaration. Neither his words nor the reviews could penetrate into my consciousness after the meeting with Ironika, and the knowledge that my moderate success had cost one woman her life made it impossible for me to celebrate. Instead I poured more vodka into my cup.

‘Party time!’ Finn roared and helped himself to a dash of vodka to which he added plenty of orange juice. ‘Congratulations, old boy!’

Near the stage where I was going to be interviewed, I was met by Linda Hvilbjerg, who gave me a polite hug and we exchanged pleasantries. She looked great. We were roughly the same age, but she looked younger. She was still slim and stylish in a grey suit with a black shirt and high-heeled shoes. Her dark hair was gathered in a bun and she wore a pair of glasses with a square steel frame that gave her a strict secretarial look, straight out of some sexual fantasy. We hadn’t spoken since Media Whore had been published, which was understandable, but she wasn’t even slightly frosty. On the contrary, she seemed positively forthcoming, though it’s possible my level of intoxication clouded my judgement, or she might have helped herself to her own medicine. It wouldn’t be the first time we got high together. In fact, it was something of a tradition.

Two upholstered leather armchairs had been placed on the stage, angled so they faced each other and the audience. Behind the chairs was a blue background on which a flat screen displayed today’s programme. Next: Linda Hvilbjerg in conversation with Frank Føns. In front of the stage were seats for around fifty people and every seat was occupied when we made ourselves comfortable. Sound engineers rushed over to help with our microphones. I wondered if all those people had come to hear about my book or to see this TV darling. The billing on the screen suggested the latter.

Linda Hvilbjerg introduced both of us and described me as one of the genre’s loyal contributors. She was witty and charming, avoided fawning excessively, but kept a good, sober tone.

‘If this interview had a title it would be “Fiction and Reality”,’ Linda Hvilbjerg began. ‘Frank, many of your fans explain their passion for your books by describing them as real and authentic, despite the very colourful depictions of murder.’

I smiled and nodded while I tried to work out where she was going with this. I knew for certain that she had an agenda and her initial politeness was merely camouflage.

‘To what extent is it important to you that your stories seem real?’

‘It matters a great deal to me,’ I replied immediately. ‘Even though my stories are scary, even terrifying and repulsive some might say, then it’s of the utmost importance that the reader will think, this could happen, and if it were to happen, then this is exactly how it would be … it’s often the realism in my books that my readers find most shocking.’

Linda Hvilbjerg nodded. ‘It was certainly shocking to read the newspaper the other day.’ On the screen behind her a newspaper headline flashed up: ‘Woman murdered in Gilleleje Marina’. ‘I can tell those of you who haven’t read In the Red Zone, without revealing too much of the plot, that a woman is mutilated and drowned in Gilleleje Marina.’

My scalp was sweating and itchy and I was suddenly aware of the heat from the spotlight above the stage. The audience was murmuring.

‘Now the police haven’t released much information about the murder yet, but it seems like an incredible coincidence. How do you feel about that?’

I took a sip of my vodka and cleared my throat before I replied.

‘I read that article too,’ I replied. ‘It’s awful that something like that can happen in a lovely place like Gilleleje, but it proves that evil is everywhere, that we’re never safe, no matter where we are or how secure we feel …’

‘But doesn’t the similarity upset you at all?’

‘Of course it does,’ I said and I think I might have snapped at her. ‘But you also have to be careful about jumping to conclusions just because you’ve recently read a book.’ I paused. ‘If you’ve got a hammer, all problems look like nails,’ I quoted. ‘I can’t imagine that every detail of that murder matches the book. It must be a coincidence.’

I hated lying so brazenly and I didn’t think for a moment that I was fooling anyone, certainly not Linda Hvilbjerg. She fixed me with her eyes and I could see that the reporter part of her brain battled with the entertainer part over which one of them would be allowed to continue. Fortunately, the entertainer part won.

‘As I mentioned, your fans regard the realism as the appeal of your books, while your critics claim you’ve written the same book ten times over,’ she said. ‘What have you got to say to them?’

‘That they can’t have read them properly,’ I replied and was rewarded with a few laughs from the audience and a brief smile from Linda. ‘I get numerous letters from my readers stating precisely the opposite. Many look forward to the next book and express how they’re surprised time and time again at the imaginative plots and range of characters …’

‘But, Frank … is it correct to say that every single one of your books follows a particular template, a model you have used since your best-known work, Outer Demons?’

It was a reasonable question and I had no reason to think she was trying to provoke me, I just objected to Outer Demons being referred to as my best-known work yet again. It was as if I would never improve on my breakthrough novel in the eyes of the critics. It had dragged after me like a ball and chain ever since; it rattled every time I tried to move and drowned out my voice, no matter what I did.

‘It’s correct, Linda, that my books have a unique style and that the tension builds up according to a pattern, but that’s also my strength. The reader recognizes a Føns thriller when they read it, just like you recognize a song by Depeche Mode, even if you haven’t heard it before.’ I shrugged. ‘All my books are about murders and the detection of them, so in that sense they’re identical. However, if you look closer, you’ll see that it’s not entirely true.’

Linda nodded. ‘So you’re saying that if I read a passage from one of your books, you’ll be able to tell me which one it is?’ She pulled out a piece of paper and the audience greeted the challenge with scattered laughter.

I held her eyes for a second. She smiled at me with a cheeky expression around her lips. I wasn’t entirely clear what she was up to, but it was too late to back down. My day was already ruined: how much worse could it get?

‘OK,’ I replied. ‘Any children present?’

The audience tittered, but Linda peered across them, temporarily wrong-footed. Nevertheless, she must have decided that it was acceptable to carry on and coughed before she started reading:

The girl squeezed her eyelids together as hard as she could. Her face was bathed in sweat and tears and the gaffer tape had started to peel off her cheek. She whimpered.

‘Look!’ he ordered her. ‘Look, or the eyelids will be next!’

Reluctantly, she opened her eyes. They were filled with tears and terror. He held up the severed nipple in front of her. She tried to scream and she fought against the cable ties pinning her to the chair, but they only dug themselves deeper into her flesh.

He moved the nipple to his lips and sucked it as if he were a nursing infant. The woman thrashed her head from side to side spraying sweat, tears and snot around.

He laughed and lifted the shears to her other breast. She froze at his touch and he smiled while he fondled the breast with the cold metal. Slowly, the nipple hardened.

‘Look, she likes it,’ he exclaimed and leered again.

With his thumb and index fingers he pinched the nipple, rubbed it a little and pulled it. He opened the shears and placed the steel jaws around the nipple.

The flesh quivered …

Linda stopped reading. The audience had fallen silent, completely silent.

She was good at reading aloud; I had to give her that. Her stresses were accurate, the pauses precisely measured and the characters brought to life despite the brevity of the passage. Personally, I didn’t like reading my own books aloud. There was something revealing about reading to others. It was proof of what I had written, an open declaration that I stood by it. Consequently I carefully selected the sections I read aloud, unless I could avoid it altogether. The choice itself would expose me. How would it reflect on the author if I read the most bestial passages? After all, the mood should ideally remain pleasant and, for that reason, I typically chose the more subdued chapters, preferably those with a little humour that wouldn’t offend anyone and which had no direct link to me.

However, it wasn’t Linda Hvilbjerg’s plan to let me get away with that.

‘Inner Demons,’ I replied. ‘Not exactly a bedtime story.’

The audience laughed with relief bordering on gratitude.

‘Correct,’ Linda declared. Some members of the audience applauded. ‘What this passage doesn’t mention is that the woman is heavily pregnant – otherwise we would have made it far too easy for you.’

She smiled and I laughed briefly.

‘Inner Demons was the follow-up to your breakthrough novel, Outer Demons,’ she explained to the audience. She turned her gaze back on me.

‘Is it true that you wrote it while your then wife was expecting your second child?’