Death Sentence

32

AFTER LINE LEFT me, I stayed with Bjarne and Anne. The first few days were almost like the Scriptorium days with whisky and deep conversations until the early morning hours, but Bjarne and Anne both had jobs to go to and soon I felt like a relative who has outstayed their welcome. I checked into the Marieborg Hotel, my first encounter with the hotel that would later feature in As You Sow.

Deep down I think Bjarne and Anne were glad to see the back of me. I was their friend, but I knew they believed the break-up was entirely of my own making. It was my fault that Line had left me and I had lost the most precious people in my life through my own carelessness. They never said so directly, but I could see it in their eyes and hear it in the silences that followed whenever I entered the room. There was nothing for it but to move out.

There were still talks to give and receptions to go to and, as I didn’t fancy sitting alone falling apart in the cottage, the hotel proved to be the answer. It was cheap and relatively near the city centre.

There was no need for me to be bored. Wealth and fame means it is never hard to find company and company was what I craved. Every time I was on my own, I had a panic attack. It was like sinking into a dark ocean. The shadows of strange creatures swam around me, but only rarely came close enough for me to be able to make them out. Sometimes they were mermaids in the shape of the Line or the girls, other times they were shapeless crossbreeds of marine animals and mammals.

It was highly likely that these visions were the result of the alcohol and drug abuse I was undertaking with the commitment and precision of a participant in a highly amoral research project. I consumed doses in exact quantities and at such intervals that enabled me to party for as long as possible without feeling either too much or too little. I balanced on a knife edge, constantly focusing on my next fix: an upper or a downer, a beer or spirits. Fortunately, I had the money to buy whatever I wanted, and when the money is there, getting booze, drugs or friends is never a problem.

I met a lot of people whom I mistakenly believed to be my friends. They were on the same ride as me, a roller-coaster in permanent motion with our hands raised high above our heads and our eyes staring straight ahead. Every night we met up at Dan Turèll, Konrad, Viktor or whichever bar was the ‘in’ place that week and prescribed for one another throughout the night until the place closed or some woman dragged me into a taxi. There were plenty of women and there were several days in a row where I didn’t sleep in my hotel bed at all. I wouldn’t feel remorseful until the next day and even then my contrition only lasted until I had had my first drink. I slept with Linda Hvilbjerg a couple more times – this was before I vented my spleen on her – and a paparazzo managed to snap a photo of us together at a party. This wasn’t something that worried either of us. The following week we were photographed with other people and soon Linda in general and me in particular were regular fixtures in the gossip columns. Or so I was told. I didn’t read them myself and nor did I care all that much except when the women I tried to chat up in bars turned me down with a snooty comment that they had no wish to be on a tabloid front page. Still, it never deterred me from moving on to the next woman who either hadn’t heard about my escapades, wasn’t bothered or actively courted publicity and viewed me as a shortcut. There was a surprisingly large number of the latter.

The circle around me grew. Some joined, others dropped off, but eventually I had acquired an entourage. They followed me everywhere, but I usually picked up the tab. At the start it didn’t worry me. I had plenty of money. But I slowly realized they had no intention of ever getting their wallets out.

One night I spotted Mortis. He was sitting on the edge of the group, close enough to be part of it, but so far away that he could leave unnoticed.

I didn’t confront him immediately. Instead I carried on buying rounds, which he was quick to accept, and I watched him when he wasn’t looking.

He was, if possible, even paler than I remembered him, his black hair long and lank. A trench coat hung over his frail body and underneath it was a white shirt that didn’t appear to have been washed for a long time. Mortis, along with a couple of other guys, seemed to thrive on the periphery. They had formed their own club within the club and they were laughing at their own jokes, which were out of my earshot. I had a growing suspicion they were laughing at me.

A couple of hours later I could no longer ignore them.

‘Bloody hell, isn’t that Mortis?’

He was startled and, for a moment, looked like a thief caught red-handed.

‘It certainly is,’ he said, and tried to smile, revealing a row of yellow teeth.

‘Bloody hell … how long has it been? Three, four years?’

He shrugged. ‘You could be right.’

‘So what are you up to?’

‘Well, you know … a bit of writing,’ he replied. He emptied his glass and looked expectantly at me.

I ordered another round. He grabbed the glass with gratitude.

‘You’re doing all right, eh?’ he said, nodding to me. ‘You’ve managed to get your … books published?’ He spat out the word ‘books’ with an ill-concealed snarl that caused those sitting closest to snigger.

‘I can’t complain,’ I replied. ‘How about you? Have you got your tattoo yet?’

Mortis glared at me and drank his drink before replying. ‘Not yet.’

Some people started an animated discussion about tattoos and those who had one showed it to the others in the group. This new game generated excitement and we became the centre of attention. Mortis look away when I took off my jacket and shirt to boast of my ISBN tattoo. He said nothing the rest of the evening; he simply knocked back the drinks that were placed in front of him. I didn’t expect to see him again, but he appeared the following evening and watched from the sidelines without joining in.

Late one night I had finally had enough. It wasn’t only Mortis. I was surrounded by five or six scroungers who had no intention of contributing and weren’t even capable of entertaining me; they merely grinned and nodded every time I said something.

I don’t even think they heard what I said because when I told everyone to get lost, they didn’t react. When I repeated it and this time added ‘parasites’, a couple of them laughed, but when I shouted it a third time, the smiles disappeared and the grinning subsided as they exchanged nervous looks. The fourth time it finally sank in and they did as they were told, but not until they had knocked back the drinks I had just paid for. They filed out of the bar, a few muttering insults such as pretentious git, skinflint and drama queen.

Mortis said nothing, but smiled with infuriating superiority and touched an imaginary hat as he left.

Everyone in the bar was staring at me, but I turned my back on them and ordered another bottle. I had had it up to here with all of them. Every single one of them wanted my money, free drinks or a little touch of stardust by touching the hem of my robe. At that time reality TV shows had become big business and I had watched with revulsion how programmes such as Survivor and Big Brother attracted the very types who had gathered around me like flies.

I downed a couple of drinks, for once not thinking about the effect. This was about getting drunk on my own. I had no need of deadbeat friends who were there only for a thrill. No more wannabes, thank you very much. No Survivor centrefolds looking for the experience of a lifetime. Piss off, amateur singers who expected TV to give them an instant career that required no sacrifices. Go away, brain-dead teenage hopefuls who thought being famous was a job. Get lost all of you who believed there was a shortcut to fame and that it came without a price tag. I had toiled for mine. And I paid the price. A high price. So high I could barely recognize my own life any more.

The outrage grew inside me until I couldn’t contain it any longer.

The bottle of booze of which I had drunk nearly half was standing on the counter. I grabbed its neck and smashed it against the edge of the bar. Then I spun around and screamed for anyone looking for a life-changing experience to come and have a go. I would change their lives beyond recognition. They wouldn’t need a television or a desert island to feel alive; I could take care of that right here and now, free of charge.

At first there was silence.

I waved the bottle in the air and carried on yelling. Was anyone looking for a new direction? Who wanted to be catapulted out of their humdrum lives, like they all secretly hoped and prayed for? Conversations resumed as if nothing had happened. Raising my voice made no difference. No one dared look at me, for fear of drawing attention to themselves. That didn’t stop me. If anyone wanted to change their life, all they had to do was come over and I would take care of it.

I was seized from behind by two bartenders, one for each arm. One of them hammered my wrist into the counter so I dropped the bottle. People in the bar tried to ignore the incident, but they watched out of the corner of their eyes. I was still howling, called the bartenders and everyone present the worst names I could think of. They frogmarched me through the room and out into the street where they pushed me so hard that I landed in the road. I sat up and carried on ranting while they went back inside the bar. One of them stayed behind the door, keeping an eye on me.

I don’t know how much time passed, but at some point a police car arrived and took me down to the station. I only remember glimpses from that night. I was led down deserted, neon-lit corridors that reminded me of a World War II asylum. I went berserk again, out of fear this time, and more police officers appeared. The next thing I remember was my belt and my shoes being taken from me. Then the cell, an ice-cold concrete box with a steel toilet and a thin mattress. After they had closed the door, I screamed abuse for a while. How long for, I don’t know. At some point I must have fallen asleep. I woke up the next morning stiff and sore all over.

I had lost my voice and the desire to use it. I felt revulsion towards city life and the company of others so when I was released I went straight to the hotel, packed my things and left Copenhagen.

Three months had passed since Line threw me out, three months where I had constantly been under the influence of alcohol, drugs or both. I couldn’t even remember if I had enjoyed myself. All the days merged into one. I had visited the same bars, met the same people and heard the same stories. Even the women I had seduced were foggy memories where, at best, all I could remember was the colour of their hair or the bedroom I had woken up in the next day.

Nor had it been cheap. Three months in a hotel was a huge extravagance and I didn’t even dare think of how much money I had spent drinking. I could afford it, no doubt about that, but when I reflect on what I got out of it, it was the worst investment of my life. My reputation was in tatters and the acquaintances I had made were worthless beyond the saloon bar and the fellowship of intoxication.

All I wanted was to be alone and avoid other people as much as I could. The cottage was the answer. Initially I had regarded it as somewhere to store my stuff until I found a place in the city, but now I had the option to disappear, barricade myself in for as long as I wanted. It was early spring, towards the end of March, and the holiday season wouldn’t start for a long time so I would be undisturbed, left to wallow in my own misery.

Even the drive up there was liberating. The further away I got from the city, the easier it became to breathe. The darkness I had found myself in slowly faded and grew lighter until it dissolved completely as I drove up the gravel drive to the Tower.

My belongings had been moved up there a couple of months ago and the boxes were still in the middle of the living room where the removal men had left them. The air was damp and stuffy so I opened all the windows and doors and went outside. I hadn’t been there for more than six months and the garden was in a sorry state. There were fallen branches everywhere, blown down during the winter, and the grass was yellow after the winter snows.

Though there was just about enough wood to light a fire, I took off my jacket and split ten or fifteen logs myself. It was hard work, the sweat dripped from me and my wrists ached, but at the same time it was incredibly good to feel my body again. Back inside I closed the windows, lit a fire and sat down in front of the flames with a glass and a bottle of whisky.

At that moment, I never wanted to leave the cottage again. Ever.

However, that wish lasted only as long as it took me to drink the house dry. I was forced to go out, though the very thought of other people made me sick. Even the sound of voices made me close windows and doors and lie down on the sofa with a blanket over me. I had unplugged the telephone after it rang twice. It was with great wariness that I made my first foray to the shop. I executed my mission like a soldier from a specialist unit, get in, get out, no hesitation or impulse-buying, and it was a success. Nothing happened. I wasn’t attacked and no one tried to talk to me. Slowly, I gained more confidence and eventually I was following a routine that became my life for the next two months. Every morning I would buy fresh bread, six strong beers and a miniature of Gammel Dansk bitters. I would drink the miniature on my way home. It was still early spring, so the warmth from the alcohol was as welcome as a warm coat. I washed down my breakfast with some beers, after which I went out into the garden. There I would chop more firewood, cut the grass or carry out other strenuous tasks.

Pleased with my efforts, I would reward myself with a few more beers, at which point I would discover that I had none left. This always came as a surprise and a second trip to the shop for more soon became a regular feature of my day, something you could set your watch by. The second trip was by bike, an old gentleman’s bicycle that had come with the house when we bought it. The chain was rusty and several spokes were missing or bent, so I must have been a pathetic sight, a long-haired, bearded creature on a rattling boneshaker, stamping on the pedals and swaying my upper body from side to side.

As the days passed, people got used to me, and on my late morning trip I always encountered the same two or three men sitting on the stone circle outside the shop. They greeted me faithfully every time, but to begin with I didn’t deign to look at them. I didn’t need human contact and I certainly wasn’t in need of drinking companions. I managed perfectly well on my own, thank you very much.

After the trip to the shop, my day consisted of sitting on the terrace if the weather stayed dry or in the living room in front of the stove if it rained and working my way through the day’s catch. Typically this meant ten or fifteen strong beers or a bottle of spirits, sometimes both. I often bought some food, but more often than not I didn’t get round to eating it.

The day would end with me falling asleep in front of the stove.

Writing was out of the question. I had lost the urge and the mere sight of books made me want to throw up. Four of the removal boxes in the living room were full of books, but I couldn’t bring myself to unpack them. The boxes remained unopened, a constant reminder of the life I had left behind.

One night, I tried to burn some of the books. The flames turned blue as they ate their way through the cover and the laminate bubbled like boils while the illustrations darkened until they were black all over and caught fire. The pages burned badly because they were too dense and I had to break them up with the poker to make them burn properly. It was slow and laborious work and failed to provide me with the satisfaction I had expected, so after three or four books I gave up.

One day, on my way to the shop for that day’s rations, I noticed that one of the men on the stone circle was holding a book. Even from a distance, I recognized it as Outer Demons. I was on the verge of turning around and probably would have done so had I not been as parched as I was. I ignored the men on my way in, but on my way out I couldn’t help glancing at them. There were three of them. Two of them were sitting down, probably to support the weight of their huge stomachs, and the third looked up. He was the one holding the book and I now recognized him as my neighbour. He waved the book and erupted in a broad smile.

‘Got you,’ he said, grinning.

I think I smiled and shrugged, but I exchanged no words with them and hurried home without looking back.

The weather was growing milder and I could sit outside on the terrace most of the afternoon. That was what I was doing that day, lazing in a deckchair with a wobbly frame and perished fabric that protested every time I shifted position. In order not to have to get up too often, I would get three beers on every trip. I was sitting with one in my lap; the other two were within easy reach, shaded by the garden table until it was their turn. This number meant my urge to urinate corresponded perfectly with my need to fetch fresh supplies.

‘Hello, neighbour,’ a voice suddenly called out and the man with the book appeared around the corner of the house. He was carrying a plastic bag.

I was about to return his greeting, but discovered I couldn’t get a word out. Looking back, I couldn’t even remember when I had last used my voice.

‘I hope it’s OK, me barging in on you,’ he continued, as he came closer. He was limping slightly and he held out his hand to me.

I nodded, straightened up as the deckchair groaned and shook his hand. It was dry and warm and I realized I hadn’t been in physical contact with another person for several weeks.

‘But … as we’re neighbours and all that’ – he pulled the book out of the bag – ‘please could I have an autograph?’

I gestured to one of the plastic garden chairs.

‘Yes, please,’ he said quickly and sat down.

‘Would you like a beer?’ I asked in a croaky voice, pointing to my stock under the garden table. I was offering not because I wanted to, but because I felt I had to.

‘No, thank you. I’ve already got some.’ He rattled the bag and the bottles clinked invitingly.

A huge wave of relief washed over me. I’d been dreading he was yet another scrounger, just like the people I had fled.

‘By the way, my name is Bent,’ he said, taking out a bottle of Fine Festival beer.

‘Frank,’ I volunteered, nodding towards the book he had placed on the garden table.

Bent grinned. ‘Yeah, mate, I worked that one out.’ He produced a bottle opener, polished to perfection by frequent trips in and out of his back pocket. He opened the beer, put the bottle top in the plastic bag and carefully removed any foil left around the bottleneck.

‘Cheers, neighbour.’ He held out his bottle to me. I held out mine and we toasted. While I drank, I watched how his Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed nearly half the beer.

‘Ah,’ he sighed when he finally removed the bottle from his lips.

I got up to fetch a pen and when I came back, Bent was busy opening the next beer.

‘I’m not usually much of a reader,’ he said. ‘But I just loved that shit. Bloody brilliant book!’

‘Thank you,’ I said, taking the book. It was a paperback, tattered and yellowed by the sun. My photo was on the back and I was struck by how serious I looked. My beard was trimmed with a ruler and my dark hair brushed back, smooth and a tad glossy like a 1930s crooner. However, it was the eyes that surprised me the most. They stared coldly and a little provocatively from the back of the book and I remember how hard it had been to look so aloof. There had been absolutely nothing to be cross about. After all, I had written a book Finn had assured me would be a bestseller, I was married to the loveliest woman in the world and had an angel of a daughter. The photo had been taken only four years ago, but it felt as if it was from a parallel universe, one where I was a successful author and not a bum.

‘A really good book,’ Bent repeated. ‘Gory details. Wicked descriptions of the murders, wicked!’

I flicked through the pages in my mind’s eye while he carried on praising the book. Several pages were dogeared. At the start, they were close together, but later in the book the distance grew and the last quarter had no folded corners at all. I signed my name and handed the book back.

‘Thanks a lot, Penpusher,’ he said holding it to his heart. ‘Viggo and Johnny wanted to borrow it, but I said no, and I won’t let them have it now, no way. They can buy their bloody own.’ He carefully returned the book to the bag as if it was as fragile as the bottles. ‘I’ve started another one. I can’t really remember the name of the guy who wrote it, but it’s not a patch on yours.’

Looking back, that first meeting with Bent, the sight of the turned-down corners and especially the frequency of them, was crucial for my return to writing. I told myself I had done a good deed. A heathen had been converted to the true faith. A non-reader had been converted to a reader and, better still, one of my readers. I was flattered. This wasn’t hollow praise from colleagues or the jet set, but a totally spontaneous gesture, as if I had found a source of pure water in a desert with nothing but poisoned wells.

Not that we were drinking water. We drank the bottles we had and Bent went off for fresh supplies several times. For the first time since my arrival, I opened the book crates. I wanted to introduce him to my favourite readings. Soon the floor was covered with books. He had reignited my voice and I let it talk and talk, words that had built up in the past weeks poured out of my mouth without me censoring what I said. I think I spoke completely over his head, but he showed no sign of being bored – on the contrary. I gave him a copy of Inner Demons and told him he could borrow books from me any time he wanted to.

Bent introduced me to the others on the stones in front of the shop and in the weeks that followed I became a member of their circle. I learned about Bent’s army career, which later formed the basis for A Bullet in the Chamber, and gained insight into Viggo’s and Johnny’s lives as long-term unemployed in an area otherwise inhabited by wealthy tourists and second-home-owners from the capital.

If meeting Bent inspired me to write again, then Viggo and Johnny gave me the motivation to get started. After only two weeks, they were repeating the same old stories, and I discovered to my horror that I was doing it too. I saw in them what I would become a few years from now if I didn’t do something to prevent it, and the thought frightened me.

Overnight I reduced my alcohol intake drastically – in fact, I switched to whisky, a marked contrast to my usual menu of beer and schnapps. It was partly a return to what used to be my favourite tipple while I wrote. The taste of good whisky alone seemed to revive my writing brain cells.

I started planning A Bullet in the Chamber. It was the perfect comeback book. I wouldn’t even need to leave the cottage to carry out research; all I had to do was wait for Bent to stop by with his bag of Fine Festival beer. He did so every day and the book quickly took shape.

I even ventured to contact Finn to tell him to expect something and his relief was palpable. When I left Copenhagen, he had been forced to turn down a number of interviews and opportunities to promote Inner Demons, but my disappearance had in itself been a great story. Sales had benefited from the coverage, admittedly fairly critical and condescending, of the missing author and Finn himself had been interviewed about my sudden exit. He knew very well where I was and probably why I had left, but he stuck to the vanishing act story and didn’t shy away from telling everybody about it.

The urge to promote myself or the book didn’t return along with the urge to write it. I discovered the optimum working method for me: isolation and a mixture of fixed writing times, physical labour in the garden or the cottage and someone to drink with when I wanted to. My life played out within a fifteen-minute walk that contained the cottage, the shop and the beach where I strolled when I needed fresh air.

I needed nothing more, only my imagination.

A Bullet in the Chamber was a story about soldiers in Iraq. The book wasn’t at all political, but the foreign setting, the discipline and the secrecy between interpreters, soldiers and their superiors inspired me to write a Ten Little Indians-style murder mystery about a group of men who are isolated at a guard post at the Iraqi border. The deaths initially look like accidents, but the killings become more and more brutal and eventually the men can no longer ignore the facts. As their numbers diminish, an atmosphere of distrust builds up and accusations fly between the soldiers. The victims begin to be mutilated, suggesting a religious motive. The obvious suspect, the interpreter Maseuf, is lynched by the frenzied group who literally rip him to pieces, but when another murder is committed it becomes a fight for survival among the men who are left. When they are down to two, the real hero of the book, Bent Kløvermark, traps the killer in a minefield where he dies and Bent himself loses a leg.

When the script was finished, I was pleasantly surprised. It was quite a respectable pile of paper, 325 pages, and they proved I could at least still call myself a writer now that I had been stripped of the title of husband and father.