Whether it was my new responsibility that made the difference, I don’t know, but what I wrote was more accessible than anything I had ever attempted before. Through my two previous books, both in some way a distortion of the crime novel, I had acquired a basic understanding of the genre, its clichés and literary devices, and it was that knowledge I now exploited. Rather than manipulate the genre this time, I embraced it and wrote a standard crime novel with all the components the reader would expect. I knew it would need a unique selling point to stand out from the rest, and I created the explicit torture and murder scenes that were to become my trademark.
I’m not exaggerating when I say that Ironika was the reason I could write what I did. She rewarded my efforts with smile and gurgles when I was doing well and cried when she could feel I was frustrated at my lack of progress. Previously I hadn’t shown anyone my work until it was finished, but my daughter was with me all the way. She sat on my lap when I proofread, I told her about the characters and their stories, about alternative complications or endings that she could reject or approve with a smile or tears.
Ironika and I wrote my breakthrough novel, Outer Demons, together. We were a team with set rituals and secrets known only to us. Not even Line read anything we wrote.
Finally the script was ready. A fat stack of 450 pages had slowly grown from our partnership. I remember feeling immensely proud because I knew I was on to something this time, something that would work. I also had a sense of loss. Even though Ironika couldn’t talk yet, Outer Demons had been a joint project and the finished script was the end of an era.
At that point my editor, Finn Gelf, had almost given up on me. We hadn’t spoken for a very long time and he was surprised, to put it mildly, when I turned up at his office with a buggy containing Ironika and the script.
‘Bloody hell,’ he kept saying as he flicked through the pages at random.
I handed over Ironika to cooing secretaries and female editors so we could have a conversation. I don’t remember which I was prouder to show off that day, Ironika or the script.
‘So that’s what you’ve been up to?’
‘That and changing nappies,’ I replied.
He nodded. ‘I can’t promise you anything, of course,’ he began, ever the salesman. ‘But I’ll have a look at it as soon as I can.’
It’s possible he had a good feeling about the script from the start because he rang me the following day to tell me he had begun it the night before and had been unable to put it down. He was clearly excited and raved down the telephone about foreign and film rights. I stayed calm. Ironika sat in her highchair by the table, frowning. It was as if she didn’t approve that I had handed over our project to a third party and she foresaw where it would lead. If I had shared her insight then, I would have snatched the script from Finn’s hands and burned it.
Editing the script took hardly any time. The text was so carefully composed that there were very few corrections to make, either in language or structure. Finn bought advertising space, posters and special display stands for bookshops. Later I learned he had remortgaged his own house to finance the marketing campaign, but I also know that he got his money back and then some.
A week before publication, Line was finally allowed to read Outer Demons. Not that she had pestered me to read it, but she had dropped a few snide remarks along the way and acted a little offended when I denied her. There were several reasons why I kept it from her. First, I doubted she would think it was any good, and secondly, there was my exclusive partnership with Ironika, who didn’t seem to want to share our work with others, not even her mother.
When she finally read the book, she was stunned. Mainly at the violence and the factual manner in which it was depicted. She said she couldn’t recognize me at all. The words were mine, but the images they conjured up she could in no way connect to me as a person. I said it was the best compliment she could give me and I meant it, or I did at the time.
The publication was celebrated at Krasnapolsky, which ZeitSign had booked for the night. The bar was located in central Copenhagen and was at the time one of the trendiest places without being exclusive. It was a huge change from the Scriptorium parties. This time we had bartenders, bouncers and waiters. Black banners promoting the book hung from the walls all the way around the rectangular room and stickers were scattered across the tables. At the bar guests could buy the book at a reduced price, which a lot of people did. In fact, more copies of Outer Demons were sold at Krasnapolsky that night than of my two first books put together.
All my friends came, as did all of Line’s family and even my own parents turned up. ZeitSign’s staff were present as well as a fair number of journalists, whom Finn plied with drinks. I got drunk very quickly, both on my editor’s visions for my future and a couple of strong cocktails called Demons, which had been invented for the occasion, so my speech was a tad more improvised than I had planned. But the mood was jubilant, except that Mortis was in his usual changeable frame of mind and kept fiddling with the free copy I had signed and given to him. I knew he disapproved of my writing a typical genre novel and he was only waiting for an opportunity to voice his disgust. I managed to avoid him all evening and at some point he left. Bjarne and Anne were there too, obviously. They had given me a gold fountain pen, ‘to sign autographs’ as Bjarne had joked, and done their best to recoup the cost of it in Demon cocktails.
The party at Krasnapolsky ended and I remember very little of the rest of the night. I know that at some point we went to Café Viktor, a place I had never been to before – I wouldn’t have been seen dead there – but the flattering attention from my guests, the Demon cocktails and the success of the book went to my head and convinced me that I was the most important man in the whole world, or at least in this bar. I enjoyed rubbing shoulders with famous cyclists and wannabe celebrities, who were all suitably impressed when they learned who I was. I couldn’t get enough of it. I wanted all of them to come and meet me, and I made sure I spoke to as many people as possible.
My guests slipped away quietly, even Bjarne and Anne. I think they said goodbye to me, but I’m not sure. I was probably deep in conversation with some television presenter.
That was my first, but by no means my last meeting in Café Viktor.
When I surfaced the following morning, I could taste Demons in my mouth. I swallowed half a litre of water. I was alone, but Line had bought all the papers and arranged them on the coffee table next to a thermos flask of coffee.
Armed with coffee and my duvet, I sat down to read the reviews. They were mixed, but even the worst ones were to my benefit. The critics queued up to express their outrage at the explicit violence and the scenes of torture and murder, but there was fierce disagreement whether this was art or exploitation. These mixed reactions were precisely what Finn Gelf had predicted and he had assured me that both points of view would boost sales. Regardless of which review people read, they would be intrigued by the critics’ disgust and revulsion. Everyone would want to read a book that induced nausea in several critics and a few had refused to finish.