Username, page 18
He sighed, got out the car and sat down on the grass. The ground was cool and the moisture seeped through the thin canvas trousers. Only the lapping of the water broke the silence. Occasionally, a car drove past on the road, destroying the illusion of nature without human intervention. His thoughts were allowed to flow with the splashing of the sea. Tomorrow, he would be back in Zealand. Should he start working again? Was he ready to move on now? He missed the hubbub of the advertising agency, he had to admit. The vitality of the design studio, where creative people radiated a pulsating energy. The excitement of seeing a project turn into something. In print. On film. Whatever. He even missed his visits to his elderly, senile mother who didn’t recognise him.
He tapped a cigarette out the packet, but didn’t bother to light it in the fresh sea air.
But he was leaving something here, too. An urge made him get up and go back to the car. He glanced quickly at his watch and up at the rear-view mirror before putting the car in reverse. Past midnight. Was it too late? No, he had to try; he couldn’t leave Jutland without seeing her again. Whatever the cost.
Kamilla poured a new glass of wine as soon as she was home again. The bottle was almost empty. Usually a bottle saw her through most the weekend. Tarzan still hadn’t come back.
She had accompanied Anne back to the newspaper office to transfer the photos to her computer so Anne could choose the best ones for her article herself. Otherwise she wouldn’t make the deadline. Thygesen had still been at work, despite the late time, so not much had changed in editorial.
She went into the study and turned on the computer. A large question mark was flashing on the screen. The Mac hadn’t been able to cope with the power outage, of course. As long as it’s not the hard drive that’s gone, she thought. She took the memory card out the camera and stored it in her safe. Those kinds of images couldn’t be retaken.
A wet sensation under a bare foot made her squat and take a closer look at what she had stepped in. She picked it up and rubbed it between her fingers. Soil. There was earth on the floor. She never wore shoes inside. The discovery made her stand up with a jerk as she looked around. Someone had been in here. Someone who had come from outside. Feverishly, she rummaged through her things to see if anything was missing. Then she opened the cupboards, her heart thumping with fear that the burglar had hidden in there. Suddenly she smiled. ‘Tarzan,’ she said aloud. The cat must have dragged the soil in. The relief calmed her tense muscles a little.
When the doorbell rang, she initially thought it was her confused brain playing a trick on her. She looked at the clock hanging over the cupboard. It rang again. She stood stock-still, wanting to give the impression she had gone to bed, but then she remembered candles were lit throughout the house. The doorbell rang again. The sound cut through the silence, making her flinch. The night the two officers had called, she hadn’t wanted to open the door either. As if something in her knew she was about to get terrible news that would ruin her life. Despite it being the last thing she could have imagined at the time. But not now. The innate sense of ‘that won’t happen to me’ had disappeared. It was replaced by fear and insecurity.
‘Who is it?’ Her voice sounded hoarse and uncertain.
‘It’s Danny!’ The voice that answered sounded firm and decisive. She wished she hadn’t revealed she was home. Her thoughts whirred. The embarrassing situation when they had been together last. The dishes she still hadn’t washed.
‘Open the door, Kamilla. I won’t stay long. I just want to say goodbye!’
Still, she hesitated. Then she opened the door, and when she saw him, he suddenly seemed like the only one who could protect her.
‘I’m sorry for coming over so late. But I saw the light.’ He smiled.
‘How did you find my address?’ Kamilla looked at him sceptically, despite the obvious answers. There were phone books and contact information and Google maps on the internet.
‘I asked at the paper,’ he admitted. The paper! Was it really that easy? She let him in.
Danny looked around the room. The wine bottle! she thought. What would he think of her for drinking by herself?
‘I had to talk to you again. And then, fortunately, I met you by chance in Den Gamle By.’ He looked at her. She looked away quickly.
‘I was actually on my way to bed,’ she lied, suddenly noticing she was shaking from the evening’s many eerie experiences.
‘I know it’s late, but… Is there any more wine?’ Danny sat down in the armchair.
She shook the wine bottle. ‘A couple of glasses, maybe.’
‘Should we share a glass?’
She fetched a glass for him from the cupboard.
‘I was just at Majken’s,’ he said cautiously.
His words stopped her in her tracks. Of course he was.
‘There’d been a burglary,’ he continued.
‘Burglary!?’ Kamilla put the glass in front of him and plonked onto the sofa opposite. He took the bottle and poured for her first, then himself. There was enough for just one glass each.
‘Nothing was stolen. Very mysterious, really.’
‘When did it happen?’ She thought of the open front door, the murder further up the road, and the soil on the floor of the study.
‘Majken had gone into the surgery to get her diary, and she discovered the window had been smashed.’
‘Didn’t she hear anything at all?’
Danny sipped his wine and shook his head.
‘No. It makes you think someone was watching her and knew exactly when she wasn’t going to be in the clinic,’ he said pensively.
She felt the tingling sensation of unease and again saw the car headlights, which had appeared like the glowing eyes of an animal between the dark shadows of the trees before disappearing. She considered whether she should tell him about her own experience and fears. She was about to start crying from the panic.
He took his glass over to the other side of the coffee table. As if he could feel her anxiety, he sat down beside her on the couch.
‘I’m sure the burglary’s nothing. A drug addict looking for something,’ he said comfortingly.
She felt his closeness as a warmth that spread throughout her entire body. He put his arm around the back of the sofa, by her shoulder. His warm fingers stroked her neck and he turned her face towards his. She smelled his aftershave and willingly followed as his hand slid behind her neck, bringing her face closer to his. His earnest eyes filled her entire field of vision. She fell into their deep brown and drowned. His kisses became more demanding and his breathing faster. She gasped for breath. Gentle, warm hands slowly unbuttoned her blouse and slid onto her stomach, up along the lace edge of her bra and behind it, where they expertly snapped open the hooks. Every touch felt like little hot shocks. But she didn’t protest. Not even when he gently pulled the blouse down over her shoulders as he kissed them and she sat practically naked in front of him.
‘I don’t usually move so fast…’ she stammered as he kissed her neck, and she felt desire taking over. She heard how faint and unconvincing her voice sounded.
‘Neither do I,’ he whispered hoarsely.
All her embarrassment disappeared. She just wanted to enjoy it. Merge with him and forget everything else. She was vaguely aware of him carrying her into the bedroom. A lamp overturned along the way, but neither really registered it.
‘Was it that good?’ He smiled as he wiped the tears from her cheeks with his thumb. His cheeks flushed, as did hers. And then the tears flowed. A redemptive and silent cry that came from deep inside, and over which she had no control. She had once read about it in an agony aunt column in a women’s magazine at the hairdressers. ‘Why do I always cry afterwards?’ the woman had asked. And the psychologist replied that sexual satisfaction hits our inner emotions, so emotions lying just below the surface emerge.
She lay close to him with his arms around her. Their bodies glued together with sweat, as one person, unable to move without the other following. Her body was light. She felt a pleasant drowsiness.
She hid her face in his chest. The dark hair smelled faintly of sweat and soap. He stroked her hair. This was different than with Jan. He had always lain on top of her, writhing with his eyes closed, like a blind worm, breathing hard through his nose to prevent himself groaning. Afterwards, he would turn his back on her.
‘What are you so sad about?’ he whispered it into her hair.
Should she tell him? She knew he wanted to understand her. He wouldn’t rebuke her the way Jan had.
‘It was over a year ago,’ she began after a short pause.
He waited anxiously and held her closer to him.
‘What was?’ he asked when she didn’t continue.
She ran her hand up over his back and shoulder and further down over the tense arm muscles.
‘My son,’ she began.
‘Your son?’ he repeated hoarsely. ‘So are you married?’
She felt the little jolt it produced in his body and looked up quickly into his chin.
‘Not anymore. We’re divorced.’
‘What happened?’
Again, she hid her face in his chest.
‘His name was Rasmus.’
She fell silent and closed her eyes.
‘He was run down and killed. A drunk driver.’
46
Something she felt she had overlooked or forgotten shook Majken awake every time she was about to slip into slumber throughout the night. But when she woke up, she couldn’t remember what it had been. She sat down wearily at the edge of the bed. Then she remembered it was Saturday and she could stay under the covers a little longer. She rolled back into bed with a blissful smile and pulled the duvet up over her head.
The trip to the bakery to buy rolls, as was her custom at the weekend, didn’t give her the sense she had forgotten anything. It was a lovely morning. The wind rustled her hair and the blackbird sang its soft song from the rooftops. The gardens she passed were fragrant with newly bloomed flowers. They were so pretty now, the gardens. Not her own, she had to admit as she walked in through the door with the bag from the bakery and a litre of skimmed milk in her arms. A sheet of chipboard had been placed in front of the broken window in the surgery. The glazier couldn’t come until Monday morning, so she had to settle for the chipboard all weekend. It did nothing to make her feel less insecure.
The aroma of the coffee beans and the freshly baked bread rolls, which lay bare like small round bellies in the ripped paper bag on the kitchen table, put her in a weekend mood. It was only at the weekends that she allowed herself the luxury of eating warm bread rolls with cold butter. You had to mind your figure at her age, and in her profession—as a doctor. Despite advising her patients to exercise for at least thirty minutes a day, she wasn’t too good at doing it herself.
The sun fell on the kitchen counter, making the coffee pot glint as the light hit the glass. She put it on the table in the dining nook. An odour that didn’t belong to her usual pleasant Saturday morning ‘smell’ bothered her nostrils. The ashtray from last night was still full. When she threw Danny’s cigarette butt into the bin, she thought of him again. He was going home today. It pained her inside. That and the fact he had rejected her. He still loved his wife in Zealand, even though they were divorced. The jealousy gnawed at her. A familiar feeling that she hated and hadn’t felt for a long time. Because she hadn’t been able to form a lasting relationship with a man. She began to feel the hatred again, too. Now it was aimed at Danny’s wife. If it weren’t for her, she was sure Danny would have slept with her last night. Then they would be sitting here together now, eating bread rolls. Her sister also came to mind. It was all her fault. Then she pulled herself together and reminded herself she was a doctor—and a psychologist. But they were also often the ones who couldn’t look after themselves and their own emotions, just like the smith’s horse and the shoemaker’s wife always having the worst shoes.
She took a bite of the roll and stared out into the garden. The neighbours had hoisted the Danish flag, as tradition warranted on birthdays. Must be one of the kids’ birthdays. It fluttered lightly in the wind between the treetops. There was a birthday soon in her own family, too. The nice family of doctors, who held birthday celebrations in groups because of the skeletons of the past, which weren’t allowed to fall out the closet. But she wouldn’t be able to be in their company anymore. Never.
The egg timer rang, pulling her back to the present with a startled jerk. The soft-boiled eggs were done. She took the pot off the stove, fished up an egg with a tablespoon and placed it in a wooden egg cup decorated with hand-painted daffodils. She cracked it with a teaspoon. The blow was too hard and the runny egg yolk trickled out onto the table. ‘Shit!’ She wiped the yellow sticky mass up with a piece of kitchen roll. ‘Why am I thinking about that again now?’ she muttered bitterly. Now she had got her life together, given up hope and got used to the idea of living alone.
She flicked quickly through the newspaper and tried to concentrate on the articles while she ate breakfast. Nothing caught her interest, until she saw the image of the girl. A tragedy greater than her own. Gitte Mikkelsen. She read the article, but it didn’t tell her anything she didn’t already know. Something clicked in her brain, but like last night, she couldn’t quite reach it. It remained a black undeveloped strip of negatives with silhouettes she could glimpse but not see clearly. She stared at the girl’s happy face. It seemed so familiar. Then it struck like lightning. She got up so forcefully that the chair almost tipped backwards.
The first sight that met her in the surgery was the dark chipboard. It made her jump a little with surprise; she had completely forgotten it was there and initially perceived it as a dark shadow. She had put duct tape around the windowsill so the rain wouldn’t get in.
Being in the clinic was uncomfortable. Knowing a stranger had broken in. Had rummaged through her personal belongings. Seen something so private. She still felt the presence of something alien.
She noticed the filing cabinet had been broken open and closed again so as not to be immediately detected. Apparently the police officer from last night hadn’t discovered it either. She quickly pulled out the drawer with the folders, searching with growing desperation. Why hadn’t she thought of it before? That was what her subconscious had been trying to tell her all night.
47
The door to her room was closed. She should be happy. It was Saturday. The summer holidays had just begun. School and homework lay far in the future, and in a week, they were to travel to Hungary. It was a new destination Mum and Dad wanted to experience. Sofie, Line and Sebastian weren’t going there, they were going to Bulgaria for the holidays. They were too big to want to go on holiday with their parents now, Mum explained. Amalie felt she was, too, but she had to go. When you’re only ten years old, you’re too young to be home alone, Dad said. She sulked even more. She wouldn’t be treated like a little baby.
She tried to concentrate on reading, but she couldn’t. Her thoughts kept wandering off and she forgot what she had just read.
Her computer pinged a new email alert, making her put down the book. She sat for a long time looking angrily at the computer. If it were an email from him, she wouldn’t reply, she decided. He was weird. All the things she’d had to do to be allowed to see the horse. She had begun to doubt there was a horse, even though he had shown her the saddle and stirrups. But she couldn’t be bothered anymore, even if he looked at her and said she was beautiful, and even if he was nice to talk to. The only one who didn’t treat her like a child. But if she wasn’t allowed to go horse riding, it didn’t matter anyway.
The email was from him. She was sitting right on the edge of the chair. Unconsciously, she grew nervous as she read. She clenched her hands, which were damp with sweat. The email started, as usual, with how beautiful she was, and how she would be a beautiful girl with perfect curves. She didn’t quite understand what he meant by that, but it sounded like a compliment coming from an adult, so she took it as the truth. Most children today are too fat, he wrote. He had found a new day they could meet, and he promised the horse would be saddled up, ready for her, in the yard when she arrived. She hurried to close the email tab when there was a knock at her bedroom door, and her mum entered soon after.
‘What are you doing, Amalie?’
Tove Bang sat down on the sofa bed and looked seriously at her daughter.
‘Nothing.’
‘We need to have a talk, honey. I can feel something’s wrong. What is it? You’re not sick, are you?’
She shook her head.
‘Is it the summer holiday in Hungary?’ She waited for the answer, but Amalie sat looking down at her bare knees. She had gone no further than putting on her underwear.
‘I know it’s boring for you that your siblings aren’t coming with us. But that’s how it is when children are nearly adults. At that age, they’d rather go on holiday on their own. I’m sure we’ll have fun anyway.’ Mum smiled, but Amalie didn’t look at her.
She wanted to tell her everything, but wasn’t sure how mad her mum would be. ‘Mum, why can’t we move to the country?’ she pleaded instead.
‘Oh, not the horse again! You have to understand we can’t…’
