It wasn’t long before Bjarne and Anne’s hospitality had banished my dark thoughts and we chatted and joked like we always had, over a wonderful meal of coq au vin with generous quantities of an excellent red wine. I needed to relax, take my mind off things, and it was astonishingly easy in their company. You couldn’t tell it was a year since we had last seen each other. The conversation flowed effortlessly, like a brook in an old forest running over stones long since polished smooth.
When we left the table, I realized just how drunk I was. I struggled to keep my balance and found it hard to focus. Bjarne took me by the shoulders and led me into the reception room where we sat down with brandy while Anne cleared the table. There was a moment’s silence, and my thoughts flew back to the gravity of my situation. Bjarne must have detected a shift in my mood because he asked if anything was wrong.
Even though I wanted to confide in him, I found it almost impossible to know where to begin. My brain was a massive knot with countless ends you could tug at, most of which would either snap or simply tighten the knot if you started pulling them. Moreover, the alcohol had given my tongue a will of its own, so it took a while before I was capable of replying.
‘Someone has copied my murder,’ I said at last and groaned.
‘Not to worry,’ Bjarne said casually. ‘You’ve got plenty of them.’ He swirled the brandy around his glass and inhaled the bouquet. ‘It might not be a conscious imitation.’ He sipped his drink. ‘By now you must have murdered hundreds of people. No wonder someone has accidentally repeated one.’
‘That’s not the—’ I began, before Bjarne interrupted me.
‘Surely there is a limited number of ways in which to kill people? You must know that better than anyone. Being innovative is difficult. Even you find it hard not to repeat yourself these days.’ He shrugged. ‘Forgive me, but some of the most recent murders you’ve committed seem a tad elaborate, if you ask me.’
‘Elaborate?’
‘Yes, I know that graphic violence has practically become your trademark,’ Bjarne said. ‘But you’re trying too hard. The execution of the murder, the description of every detail of the act overshadows the rest of the story.’
‘You don’t understand,’ I muttered.
‘I’m speaking as your friend, Frank,’ Bjarne continued and placed his hand on my knee. ‘The explicit torture and murder scenes have taken over. The plot has been reduced to a weak glue that connects the murders and the characters are all stereotypes. Your stories have no bite these days.’
We had always been honest about each other’s work. At the time of the Scriptorium, we could be merciless in our verdicts, at times so harsh that objects were thrown and doors were slammed, but Bjarne’s words didn’t upset me. What irritated me was that he didn’t understand.
‘Bjarne …’ I caught his eye and he seemed to realize that I was trying to tell him something important. At any rate, he shut up. ‘Two people, real people, have been murdered. They were killed because of me … or in ways which I have described.’
Bjarne stared at me as if he expected or hoped that I would start to laugh. When I didn’t, he cleared his throat.
‘Is that why you want to get hold of Mortis?’
I nodded.
‘It makes no sense,’ he said. ‘Mortis couldn’t kill anyone. Don’t you remember how thin he was? Nothing but skin and bones.’
‘And hatred,’ I added. ‘If the police were to ask me if I had any enemies, Mortis would spring to mind. I think he hated me with all his being.’
Bjarne shook his head. ‘He was jealous. There’s a difference.’
‘One thing can lead to another,’ I said. ‘I stole his woman and I was successful with—’
‘He wasn’t jealous of your books,’ Bjarne interrupted me. ‘On the contrary, he felt sorry for you. You know what he’s like, utterly uncompromising when it comes to literature. In his eyes, you had lost your way, you had strayed from the light and were on the road to hell. That was enough of a punishment for him.’
‘When did you last speak to him?’
Bjarne drank his brandy before replying.
‘Only a couple of months ago, actually. He called to ask if I wanted to buy some of his books.’ Bjarne closed his eyes and massaged a temple. ‘I declined. It’s not as if we need any more books, but …’
‘But?’
‘Well, it sounded as if he was in trouble.’ Bjarne sighed. ‘It didn’t occur to me until afterwards. I’ve tried to push it from my mind … until now.’
‘When did you last visit?’ I asked.
‘It’s been a long time. He lived in north-west Copenhagen then, 43 Rentemestervej, I looked it up, but I don’t know if he still lives there.’
‘I’ll find out,’ I said.
I have a sense of being halfway there.
Perhaps I’m being optimistic. Though I can see the road ahead, I know I will face further temptations in the second half. It will be difficult to resist shortcuts and leave out painful interludes, but I must persist, focus on the next step all the time.
My resolve is stronger than ever. I’m writing with greater confidence and I can work for longer periods without getting lost or taking breaks. Could it be that the critic is approaching? He has stepped out from the shadows and I sense him by my side, like a guide or a travelling companion.
But I’m alone.
I realize this when I look up from the screen and stare into the darkness. I listen out, but there is no advice or directions. My route is already determined and I must follow it if I’m to ever arrive.
So I turn my eyes back to the screen and take another step.
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.