Death Sentence

20

THE WEEKS THAT followed the publication of Outer Demons went by in a blur of interviews, meetings and appearances. I was expected to have an opinion on anything and everything from school bullying to prison sentences and – surprise, surprise – violence as entertainment and means of artistic expression. I was invited to parties, gala premiers and talk shows and I went to most of them.

Book sales soared. Translation rights to some territories were sold by auction and several companies expressed an interest in the film rights.

Soon the sales figures and the hype were so colossal that even the arty television book show On the Bedside Table had to admit defeat and feature me in an interview. The host was Linda Hvilbjerg, a journalist I had seen several times at Café Viktor, Dan Turèll or one of the other bars where I had been partying in the wake of publication. We hadn’t spoken very much, but I got the impression she was a cold-hearted bitch. However, she was a stunningly attractive bitch. Dark, curly hair, brown eyes and a wide smile that almost blinded you. In the spirit of the programme she was discreetly dressed in a pale skirt and black blouse, which still managed to hint at a trim waist and a pair of firm, medium-sized breasts.

We met in the studio one hour before the start of the programme, which would be broadcast live. I was nervous. It was an important interview and I was intimidated by her. As I sat in make-up, my goal was just to get through it without her actually wiping the floor with me, so I was very surprised when she entered and greeted me profusely. She gave me a hug, praised my work and generally came across as open and approachable.

When the make-up artists had finished, Linda Hvilbjerg proceeded to offer me some of her own beauty powder, as she called it. She prepared four lines of white powder on a pocket mirror and quickly snorted two. Gripped by the mood and hoping to get my nerves under control, I took the other two. It didn’t take long before my anxiety had gone and I actually started looking forward to the interview.

We chatted and joked before we went on. I felt safe. It was as if we were sharing something important and I could tell her everything.

The studio consisted of two partitions with bookcases filled with fake book spines, a red velvet sofa for the guests and an armchair for the host. The style was elegant and subdued, with a deep carpet, standing lamps and dark colours. We sat down and while she reviewed her notes one final time, I took the opportunity to study my surroundings. Two cameramen were doing focus checks and beyond the cameras’ range there were cables everywhere and clusters of lights suspended from a grid in the ceiling. The crew seemed almost indifferent to us; as far as they were concerned we were merely part of the set.

The interview began and Linda Hvilbjerg opened by congratulating me on my success and the huge interest. Had I ever expected it? I replied – as I had done in the countless interviews I had given recently – that it was probably something you could never really prepare yourself for, but that I was enjoying it after having worked for it for a long time. We talked about the furore the book had caused and violence in the media in general. These were all questions I had been asked before and I knew the answers to them blindfolded, but even so, Linda, the atmosphere and – let’s not forget – her beauty powder made it resemble an intimate conversation rather than a hard-hitting interview. I gave more of myself than usual and felt good about it. She also flirted a little, which probably did no harm.

Halfway through the interview, she asked me how I managed to come up with all that horror and describe it in such detail that the images evoked were almost unbearable. I had answered that question before, but this time I didn’t fob her off with the standard answer.

This time I told her the truth.

Ironika was a huge part of my life when I wrote Outer Demons. My day revolved around her and, in her own way, she had been my inspiration. I would often carry her around the flat; she liked that. While she lay there, defenceless and filled with trust and love, I explored my greatest fear: what was the worst thing that could happen to her? Parenthood had changed my outlook on life, there was nothing I wouldn’t do for my daughter, and it was this total surrender that paved the way for an even stronger emotion: fear. What if anything happened to her? I conjured up my worst nightmares and examined my reaction. If I couldn’t bear to think about it happening to my daughter, I would use it in my book; otherwise I would dismiss it and carry on searching. To this end, I would wander around the flat rummaging through drawers for suitable instruments of torture and explore the most terrifying scenarios inspired by my fear.

The victims in Outer Demons were teenage girls, not infants, but the ideas behind what they were subjected to were rooted in my days with Ironika.

This was roughly the answer I gave Linda Hvilbjerg. A moment of silence followed and I detected a change in her eyes. Not revulsion or distance, but a kind of admiration or ecstasy. She carried on her line of questioning and asked about other sources of inspiration, which authors I read and who my role models were.

When the interview was over, I felt very pleased. Linda Hvilbjerg was downright elated. She claimed it was one of the best interviews she had ever done and she thanked me warmly. Her eyes had taken on a relentless aggression, a hunger that made me feel a little uneasy.

Intoxicated by her beauty powder and flattering attention, I was persuaded to go to a party with her. She had her party clothes in her dressing room and used the studio’s facilities to get ready. In the meantime I was installed in a sofa with a gin and tonic and a pile of magazines.

When Linda Hvilbjerg came out from make-up, she was transformed. The discreet bluestocking was gone and in her place there stood before me a red-carpet beauty in a clinging dark dress, white earrings and her hair piled up.

Embarrassed, I apologized for my own appearance, but she wouldn’t hear of it, grabbed me by the arm and led me to a waiting taxi.

The party was held in Nørrebro in a large artist’s studio that had been taken over by an advertising agency and turned into their offices. There wasn’t a desk in sight. The floor had been cleared and lights mounted on the ceiling beams high above us. Professional DJs created an impenetrable wall of electronic music. Linda knew many of the people there, and I could make out a few familiar faces, but it was impossible to have a conversation.

We knocked back a couple of green cocktails and tried to dance, but we soon agreed that we were in need of something stronger. Linda gestured towards the lavatories and we made our way through dancing guests and conversations being shouted between frocks and suits.

The party covered both floors of the building, so we went downstairs where the noise level was lower and there was no queue for the lavatories. A few clusters of people who had escaped the pandemonium were hanging around. They stared hungrily after Linda as we passed them by.

The lavatory was newly renovated with black wall and floor tiles and large mirrors over square sinks with brass taps. There were three cubicles, all vacant, and we chose the furthest. I locked the door and Linda took out her pocket mirror from her handbag. She set up four lines while I rolled a one-hundred kroner note into a tube. We took turns snorting the lines.

As I snorted the last one, Linda threw back her head, closed her eyes and inhaled deeply with a huge smile on her lips. She giggled, opened her eyes a little and looked at me through the narrow cracks.

‘Do you know something?’ she said, resting her hands on my shoulders.

‘You’re really a man?’

Linda Hvilbjerg giggled again. ‘You’d like that, wouldn’t you?’

‘Not at all,’ I replied quickly and placed my hands on her hips. ‘What a waste that would be.’

‘Your book is crap,’ she stated boldly.

‘OK,’ I replied and removed my hands as if I had burned myself.

She merely laughed. ‘But you know something?’ She took my hands and put them back on her hips. ‘It made me so horny.’

I let my hands glide around her back and over her buttocks. They tensed slightly as I grabbed them. I could feel through the flimsy fabric that she wasn’t wearing any knickers.

‘And what did you do about it?’ I asked in a thick voice. The drugs were starting to work; Linda seemed to glow and my penis strained against my trousers.

‘I took the book with me to bed.’ She started unbuttoning my shirt. Her hands found their way in and brushed my chest before moving down to the waistband of my trousers. ‘I lay down completely naked,’ she carried on, while her fingers undid my belt buckle. ‘And read the best sections while I touched myself.’

I started pulling up her dress, inch by inch.

‘I imagined it was me who was lying there, tied up.’ She sighed when she finally released my penis, which willingly jumped to freedom. ‘Me being fucked … everywhere … and not being able to stop it.’

Her dress was now up so much so that I could reach her groin with my hand. Her body twitched when I touched her labia and she grasped the root of my dick with a grip that threatened to cut off the blood supply.

‘I came like a fucking train,’ she whispered, lifting up one leg and placing her foot on the cistern to give me better access. ‘This is my way of saying thank you.’

It may have been the drugs, but sex with Linda Hvilbjerg was the kinkiest I had ever had. It was not passionate as with Line, but wild and demanding as if the world was about to end. The sweat poured from us and we gasped for air when we finally came. I collapsed on the toilet seat with my trousers around my ankles and she sat astride me, with my penis still inside her.

Linda laughed quietly between her heavy breathing.

‘That’s going to hurt in the morning,’ she said.

Morning. Suddenly it dawned on me that there was a tomorrow, a day with a wife, a child and work. A life with people who meant the world to me. It was as if my body expelled me and I floated up above the cubicle where we were sitting and observed the tawdry scene below. The attraction vanished. My penis shrivelled and withdrew from Linda’s body. The bile rose in my throat and I felt so woozy I had to close my eyes.

When I opened them again, Linda was fixing her hair. Her face and throat were still a touch flushed.

‘I’ll see you upstairs,’ she said, leaning forward to give me a quick kiss before she left the lavatory.

All I could think about was getting out of there. I stood up, my legs shaking, and pulled up my trousers. My shirt was soaked in sweat and my trembling hands could barely button it. I gave up trying to stuff it inside my trousers and went outside. It was cold and I skulked along the buildings until I found a taxi. I wished the trip would last all night and delay the meeting with my real life, but I was home in an instant.

I hesitated. My heart pounded and sweat was dripping from my forehead again. It was just after midnight and Line had probably gone to bed. I inhaled deeply a couple of times, slipped the key in the lock and carefully opened the door. It was dark, but I refrained from switching on the light. Having closed the door behind me, I stepped out of my shoes and peeled off my jacket. I sneaked over to the door to Ironika’s bedroom and peered inside. Despite the darkness, I could see she wasn’t in her bed. When I wasn’t at home, she would sometimes sleep in the double bed with Line, so I tiptoed to the master bedroom. I held my breath and listened out. There was no sound. Slowly, holding out my hands, I walked through the darkness towards the place where the bed was.

It was empty.

I switched on the bedside lamp and realized that my hands hadn’t been mistaken. The bed hadn’t been slept in. A wave of relief washed over me. Perhaps there was still time for me to take a shower and wash off the smell of Linda? But my relief soon turned into worry. If they weren’t here, then where were they? I entered the living room and switched on the light.

Line was sitting in the armchair by the window, her arms folded across her chest and an insistent gaze directed at me. She wasn’t smiling.

‘How could you do it, Frank?’

Her eyes didn’t leave me and I felt like cowering. My palms grew sweaty and my cheeks felt hot.

‘What do you mean?’ I managed to say, but it sounded low and hollow.

Still it was a fair question. Line couldn’t possibly have known that I had been with Linda. Yes, people had entered the lavatory while we were at it, but I couldn’t have been so unlucky that it was someone who knew me and Line – that was too improbable. My remorse at my infidelity vanished temporarily.

I straightened up and flung out my hands. ‘What have I done?’

While I waited for her to reply, I scanned my brain to retrieve any event that might have made her angry, things I had said or done or failed to do, but I couldn’t find anything.

‘How could you have such thoughts about our daughter?’ Line said at last.

The interview! It was the interview. At that point in time, I was so full of my success that I failed to see the connection between the television interview and Line’s reaction. How could I? It seemed to me that the interview had been a triumph, and that was also the impression Linda Hvilbjerg had given me.

I took a step towards Line. The right thing would have been to go to her and hold her in my arms to reassure her and convince her, but the smell of sex and Linda Hvilbjerg still lingered on my body and in my clothes, so I stopped. She must have interpreted it as hesitation because she looked away and her face took on a resolute expression.

‘So it’s true,’ she said. ‘You fantasized about mutilating and murdering my daughter.’

‘That wasn’t what I meant,’ I protested. ‘Or, I mean … I would never …’

‘Don’t you think it sounds a little bit sick, Frank?’

I shook my head. ‘I would never hurt her,’ I said. ‘I love Ironika more than anything in the world.’

Line’s eyes bored into me again. They were filled with distrust.

‘I’ve read the book, Frank,’ she said slowly. ‘I can’t even begin to imagine how you can think like this and certainly not in the presence of Veronika.’

I looked around, searching for the object of the discussion, who had been here while I wrote the book and approved every line. Perhaps she could come to my rescue, deflect this row.

‘She’s with her granddad,’ Line said.

I felt torn in half. One part was consumed with the most profound guilt at having been unfaithful to Line, the other with righteous indignation at being treated unfairly. The two halves couldn’t agree and their opposite qualities cancelled out any decent course of action. The result was that I simply stood there, gawping at my wife without defending myself or apologizing to her.

Line stared at me for a while, but as I didn’t react, she got up with a sigh.

‘It’s no good,’ she said. ‘I need time.’

I stepped forwards, but she held up her hand to me.

‘Alone,’ she said as she walked to the door.

I retreated slightly as she passed me. The smell of Linda was still very fresh on me, but to Line it must have looked as if I was giving up on her. I still couldn’t think of anything sensible to say and she got dressed in silence and left the flat without looking at me. From the window I saw her wheel her bicycle in the direction of Amager. At the corner, she turned around and looked up at the flat.

Away from Line’s accusing eyes, the half of me that felt victimized got the upper hand. I went over the interview and replayed the exchange in my mind. I hadn’t lied, this was how Outer Demons had been conceived, but to think … it was precisely because I loved my daughter that I had been able to write such dreadful things. They were my worst nightmares, the most revolting things I could imagine ever happening to her.

The anger surged in me until I could no longer suppress it. I punched the sofa, kicked cushions and furniture, howled at the door through which Line had left.

I was upset and I felt betrayed. Of all people, Line ought to understand me.

When I had finished punishing the furniture, I collapsed from exhaustion.

My guilt slowly returned. If I didn’t deserve to burn in hell because of the interview, then I deserved it for my disastrous mistake with Linda Hvilbjerg. The whole episode had been so grotesque that I could hardly describe it as infidelity, but of course that was what it was. I was a bastard, a terrible father and a rotten husband. My anger with Line had disappeared – she was right. I was a bad person who hurt the people around me. I cried, raged and beat myself up as the pathetic loser I was. I ran around the flat, slammed my palms against the walls and door frames, threw myself on the floor. At one point I drank gin straight from the bottle and my fits of rage ebbed away as my blood alcohol percentage increased. My vision blurred and the light faded until at last everything around me grew dark.

I woke up in a foetal position on the bathroom floor. It stank of vomit and urine. The stench made my nausea worse and I just managed to raise myself to the toilet bowl before the bile poured out of me. I could have saved myself the trouble. The floor was already swimming in vomit and piss.

I struggled to stand up and I looked at myself in the mirror. It was cracked from when I had headbutted it at some point during the night and I had a split eyebrow to show for it. My clothes were wet, lumps of vomit were stuck to my hair and the whites of my eyes depicted a fine, intricate river delta of blood. I stood like this for a couple of minutes, studying the wreckage in what remained of the mirror. Slowly I undressed and threw my clothes in the bath. I poured water and detergent into a bucket, found a cloth and started cleaning the floor.

It was over.

From now on, I would pull myself together.

I had to get my family back. No more alcohol or drugs, no more benders, no more parties or receptions and definitely no more Linda Hvilbjerg.