We continued our charade for most of the evening and I think we both enjoyed burying the hatchet for a while. We immersed ourselves completely in our little game and flirted with words, looks and light touches so at last it was only a question of where and when we finally lost our inhibitions.
Even though I carried on drinking and she had been out to ‘powder her nose’ a couple of times, I controlled myself and didn’t simply take her down the hall and screw her behind one of the stands while books cascaded around us. I restrained myself because it was my only chance to protect her, but also because I longed for the warmth of a woman.
Heavily intoxicated and exceedingly horny, we took a taxi back to Linda’s around midnight. I was enormously pleased with myself. Admittedly, I hadn’t told her that she was genuinely in danger, but I was with her and I imagined that in itself would deter the killer. In fact, I regarded myself as something of a saviour and felt so confident that I decided to relax and enjoy myself now that I was there. I deserved it, I convinced myself, and I surrendered to her increasingly intimate groping in the taxi. I noticed the taxi-driver’s eyes in the rear-view mirror, but decided to ignore him.
We carried on play-acting. She was the doe-eyed client and I was the hard-boiled detective who was there to protect her and tend to her needs in every way. To this end a thorough physical examination was required, I insisted, to determine what state she was in and also to check for possible wires or other electronic equipment she might be concealing about her person.
Linda giggled at my suggestions and wanted to hear more. Would I be devoting extra attention to certain areas of her anatomy? Did I have special equipment to explore her body? I readily confirmed this and demonstrated how I could examine her mouth most effectively with my tongue. While we kissed, she checked out the rest of my equipment and she was duly impressed at the erection she could feel through my trousers. I, too, was surprised. Despite drinking heavily all day, I still had a hard-on like a teenager.
We were so randy that I almost forgot to pay the driver when we finally reached her house, a two-storey villa in Valby. We spilled out of the taxi and headed for the front door where Linda rummaged through her handbag for the keys. I grabbed her buttocks and kneaded them. They were small and firm, like two balls, and she moaned tenderly and pushed them out towards me.
Finally, she managed to unlock the door and we tumbled into the hall. She didn’t switch on the light, but dropped her handbag and turned around to embrace me. We kissed again. In a thick voice, I suggested that she undressed.
Linda Hvilbjerg took one step back. Moonlight shone through a small window above the front door and on to her torso. She wriggled out of her shoes and reached around to her neck. The thin straps fell and with a snakelike movement the black dress slithered over her slim, white body. Her nipples were hard and bobbed up and down towards me like an invitation every time her breasts heaved and fell with her breathing. Her arms were still raised above her head and her back was arched. The skin on her belly was covered with goose pimples and her pubic hair was a close-cropped black rectangle that disappeared between her white thighs.
She asked if I could see anything and I replied that everything looked very, very good, but that I had better carry out a hands-on examination. I stepped towards her and unfairly blocked the moonlight. She let her arms fall around my neck, but I caught them and lifted them back over her head. She giggled, grabbed hold of the coat rack above her and pushed the rest of her body towards me. I kissed her nipples and her laughter was replaced by a small gasp followed by a low moaning. My hands caressed her arms, breasts and stomach. She quivered and the goose pimples rose prouder on her stomach. She sighed loudly and her body trembled as I touched her groin. She was warm and very wet.
I whispered softly that I might have found something and she whispered something affirmative. I took a step back to allow the moonlight to illuminate her body again. She stood with her eyes closed, squirming as if even the light tickled her. I expressed the opinion that it was necessary to use tools and she acquiesced with a sigh. I quickly undressed and left my clothes in a pile on the floor. I was fully erect and the blood was rushing around my body. My hands trembled as they seized her hips and turned her so she stood with her back to me. She pushed her arse towards me and spread her legs. I grabbed her buttocks, bent my knees slightly and entered her in one slow movement.
The word count has reached a critical mass. I wouldn’t be able to stop now even if I wanted to, and the sheer magnitude of the manuscript forces me to sleep less and less.
When I finally sleep, I dream about running, not away from something but towards a door or gate that is ajar. It closes just as I reach it, no matter how fast I run, and I wake up on sweaty sheets in the kind of silence that follows a scream. For a long time I lie there, listening, unable to fall asleep again.
It wears me out. I write in a haze. Sometimes I can’t even remember having written the sentence I have just concluded with a full stop. And, from time to time, I don’t recognize the tone that colours it. I take this as evidence that my project is succeeding, my filter has definitely gone, the words flow without being weighed or measured by my vanity or pride, as if they have been written by someone else – something inside me that urges me on and keeps me going.
I’m ready for the final sprint; this is it, from now on it’s going to get very difficult.
Sunday
31
SOMETIMES WHEN YOU wake up, you instantly know that something is wrong. When I started writing full-time I would often get this feeling. I would suddenly open my eyes, convinced I was late for work, until I remembered that I was master of my own fate and could turn over and go back to sleep if I wanted to. In the minutes that pass before you realize what sort of day it is and what plans you have for it, the slightest thing sends you into a flat spin because everything just feels wrong.
When I woke up in Linda Hvilbjerg’s bed, I knew straightaway that something was up. I had slept heavily, very heavily, but that wasn’t surprising. I hadn’t slept very much in the last few days and last night’s physical exertion had also taken its toll. I was sore all over. We had mated like wild animals. Made love in every single room and in every imaginable position. Even though I had been about to explode from lust, I had been able to last for what felt like hours and it wasn’t until we finally ended up in her bed that I surrendered to Linda’s ferocity and she rode us both to orgasm. I must have fallen asleep shortly afterwards because I don’t remember anything after that.
But it was neither the exhaustion nor the strange surroundings that explained the feeling in my body. It was something else I couldn’t put my finger on.
I looked around. The bedroom was done entirely in white and in the grey light cast by the sombre sky outside, it seemed clinical and sad. Linda wasn’t there. I sniffed the bed linen. It smelled of sex and sweat like after a pub crawl. From the bed I could look out of the door, out on to the landing from where steps led down to the living room. Images of us fucking our way up the stairs flashed before my eyes.
I shook my head, but stopped when I felt a headache hit it like a hammer. My throat was parched and my stomach complained with a loud rumbling.