She stood up and pressed her arms to her sides.
‘I’ll drive back now,’ she said. ‘But there’s something I want to tell you before you hear it from other people.’ She paused. ‘I … I’ve met someone. His name is Bjørn … he’s moving in with us next week … the girls are crazy about …’
I heard what she said, saw her struggle to express the words and serve them up like tiny hand grenades wrapped in cotton wool. I noticed the little ripple of a smile that formed when she spoke his name and noted her frustration when her reassuring words ended up sounding like gloating.
A fire ignited within me, bombs and stars exploded in my body and I felt like throwing up until my guts were spread out in front of me. But I focused all my strength on staying calm. I transformed my face into a cast of Frank Føns, a death mask that reproduced his final emotions before the execution.
‘Did you hear what I said?’ Line asked.
I responded by raising my whisky glass towards her.
‘Congratulations,’ I said and drained the glass.
She shook her head. ‘Goodbye, Frank,’ she said. Her voice broke and she clasped her hand over her mouth as she hurried away from me, around the corner of the house, out of my field of vision. Soon afterwards I heard the sound of a car starting and driving off.
I stared at my glass and then across the garden.
Suddenly I felt like cutting the grass and maybe chopping down a couple of trees.
Media Whore followed soon after Nuclear Families. I finished it in record time, expelled it from my body with the rage and impotence I felt at losing Line and my girls. Someone had to pay and ultimately it was all Linda’s fault, wasn’t it? Of course it wasn’t, but at the time that wasn’t how I saw it. After Line’s visit I could no longer hate her so I had to find someone else to vent my fury on. Linda had made me betray my family and, in my opinion, that was the beginning of the end.
Media Whore proved to be moderately successful. Even though I had written it for myself, some critics felt that it captured the spirit of the age and its obsession with celebrities, and it received considerably more coverage than it deserved. Linda Hvilbjerg herself never referred to it once.
My next victim was Bjørn, Line’s new husband and my daughters’ stepfather.
You Don’t Have To Call Me Dad is about a paedophile who lives several double lives with different women, all of whom are ignorant of each other’s existence. It’s the kind of story you hear about from time to time without ever understanding how it can be possible, but I took it one step further. My main character and killer, Bjørn Vibe or Bjørn Jensen or Bjørn Christoffersen, as he also calls himself, selects single mothers with daughters, as many as possible. He charms his way into the family so effectively that the mother ends up accepting his marriage proposal – what else would she do? Bjørn is great with the kids, good-looking and has a well-paid job as a travelling sales manager. After the wedding, Bjørn’s personality changes. He batters both the mother and her children and it escalates to actual slavery where he abuses everyone in the family. His alleged job enables him to travel from one family to the next, always without warning, so they never know when he will be back or when he will leave. At some point in the relationship, he kills one of the children to assert his power, usually pretending that the mother has transgressed in some minor way. She is forced to cover everything up or her other children will suffer. Bjørn is finally punished for his attacks when one of his wives discovers the existence of one of the others. They track down the remaining wives in his harem, set a trap and torture him over a weekend. All the wives are involved and participate in the final execution where they stab him until he is one bloody pulp. At the end, the women decide to join forces, seek out men with similar tendencies and subject them to the same treatment.
It was inexcusable to portray Bjørn in this way and I hope my daughters never read that book. In fact, I hope they never read any of my books. Even though writing is my job and I wrote in order to provide for them, I don’t like the thought that they might one day read what I have written. I would dearly love them to be proud of me, but I blew that chance long ago.
If they were to read anything of mine, I hope it will be these pages. Perhaps it will help them understand me better, but I seriously doubt they will ever have an opportunity to read this.
Linda Hvilbjerg was right. My literary output is one long string of attacks on everyone around me and my next book, As You Sow, was no different. Now it was Verner’s turn. I camouflaged it as a vigilante story where the murdered characters somehow deserved to die, but I was really out to get Verner. In my eyes, he had it coming. The incident at Line’s party alone justified it, but it was just as much because I had hurt Line by having anything to do with him. Maybe things would have been different if I had distanced myself from Verner from the beginning. This was my thinking, and that was why he had to be wiped off the surface of the earth in the book.
Line never visited me again and my behaviour ensured that I was denied access to my children. My books were used as evidence when the court order was reviewed. The frequent violence and the obvious link between the plots of my books and the girls’ family circumstances made it easy for the judge, and the court order was extended. The wording of the court’s decision came as close to calling me unbalanced as is possible without actually stating it.
Not being able to see my girls was the worst. I had thought it would get easier in time, but it didn’t. Every day I wondered how they were, what they were doing and if they thought about their dad. This probably happens to every parent when their children leave home, but I had been separated from them so early that I couldn’t imagine how they could be prepared for life’s trials and tribulations without me. I believed I had hard-earned experience to pass on to them and dreamed several times that they stayed with me in the cottage in the holidays so they could get to know me.
The years in the cottage in Rågeleje seemed to me one long writing retreat. I wrote more than seven books in the Tower and every single day centred on producing my 2,500 words.
Astonishingly, I rarely felt lonely. I had become addicted to the silence in the holiday resort. Here it could be quiet like nowhere else. Another person in the house would have disturbed the cocoon of calm I surrounded myself with. The sea would often break the silence, but that wasn’t irritating, it merely emphasized the absence of other sounds.
Silence became important for my work. Previously I had been able to write anywhere, in any situation, while all sorts of things were happening around me – even children playing – but no more. I had to be alone and free from intrusive noise. Music was out of the question. Even the racket of chainsaws or lawnmowers sometimes destroyed my rhythm.
I felt best when I rose at the same time, ate the same breakfast, wrote roughly the same amount of text during the day and finally rewarded myself with a whisky in the afternoon with Bent.
I’m sure that a totally predictable life would have made me want to scream in the Scriptorium days. Back then we wrote in response to experiences and unique events, not in routine and repetition. If anyone had told me then that I would spend ten years writing in a holiday cottage, I would have laughed at them. I had wanted to travel, see the world, and I never wanted to write the same story twice.
The reality turned out to be something else. Reality was a day with fixed working hours, weeks all the same and months distinguished from each other only by the changing weather and the nature of gardening tasks.