I proposed several toasts. I drank to my health and erupted in laughter every time. I felt confident. Step one of my plan had succeeded and I had a sense of being in control, or at any rate no longer mystified. That night I allowed myself to relax – a day of rest before the great exertions in the weeks ahead.
I didn’t need my bed that night. I fell asleep in the armchair in front of the television and I awoke to images of suicide bombers in the Middle East. Dusty streets filled the screen with people running around, crying and screaming about injustice and revenge. In Denmark they were still discussing the budget.
I switched off the television and didn’t turn it on again.
After a modest breakfast of a heated roll and coffee, I sat down in front of the computer. It started up with a slow humming. The envelope with my handwriting lay on the table. I opened it and took out the photograph. It was one of five pictures I had taken in the photo booth at Nordhavn station. My hair was a tad messy, my beard a little denser and stragglier than usual, but it was the eyes that attracted attention. They were empty and seemed to look into a dark place.
I leaned the picture against the screen.
* * *
The computer had finished starting up. The desktop was an old photo of the cottage taken one summer’s day. It was almost like sitting in my study in the Tower and looking out at the garden.
I opened the word-processing program and created a new document. This was always a special occasion, a little bit like a painter starting a new painting on a brand-new canvas, but this time I didn’t relish it. I missed the feeling of freedom that normally inspires me at the sight of a blank page. This time I knew precisely what I would be writing and it terrified me.
I took my letter from the envelope and placed it next to the keyboard.
It was a brief synopsis, written with trembling hands. The desperation and the terror seeped out from the jagged handwriting.
I copied the title from the letter to see here of the document:
Death Sentence
by
Frank Føns
I saved the document with practised keystrokes, an acknowledgement that there was no way back.
I took a deep breath and began …
‘Until recently I had only killed people on paper.’
Today
Final Chapter
I DIDN’T SLEEP last night.
Eight days have passed since I sent this script to the box at Østerbro post office and two days since I received a reply. It was a postcard of the Little Mermaid. All the card had on it was today’s date. The postmark was Nykøbing, the largest town in the area, approximately fifteen kilometres away. I don’t know what to deduce from that. Is he staying locally? Am I under surveillance or was it some smokescreen? Ultimately, doesn’t matter.
I can feel that the time has come.
My body is in a heightened state of alert and nothing escapes my attention. I hear every sound, see every colour and feel the slightest gust of wind against my skin. It’s as if my entire being wants to absorb every single impression while it still can. My hands refuse to relax. They constantly seek surfaces and objects to touch and I register details of the tabletop and the windowsill that I hadn’t noticed before. The veins in the wood feel like mountain ranges and I detect unevenness in the polished marble surface. My taste buds deny me whisky, the taste is too sharp, and I discover nuances in the flavour of tap water I had never noticed before. I drink a lot of water. It tastes heavenly and my throat feels constantly dry.
Outside I watch the birds pecking at the breadcrumbs I have scattered. It’s almost as if I can hear their beaks split open the seeds in the bread. When they spread their wings and take off, I see them in slow motion and I tell myself I could catch them quite easily. I would be able to anticipate their every move and there is a suppleness in my muscles that convinces me I’m faster, better controlled than they are. A sudden urge makes me run around the garden. I feel the wind against my face and the grass under my bare feet. The exertion doesn’t affect me. My breathing is under control. I can hear the air pass in and out of my lungs and airways in a steady rhythm, like mechanical bellows.
When I go back inside, the stuffy air in the house nearly suffocates me. The air feels viscous and slows down my movements. I open all the windows and doors for fifteen minutes before the air is tolerable again. A faint scent of pine from the trees outside remains after the windows have been closed. I empty the bin, which smells of the fry-up I had yesterday. The fridge is empty, but that’s all right. Even though I’m hungry, I know that my taste buds won’t allow themselves to be touched by any old food and there is no prospect of a major gourmet experience in this area. Besides, I can’t leave the house.
I’m expecting guests.
The items we will need are laid out on the dining table. I pick up the scalpel and test the blade, even though I did so earlier this morning. It’s incredibly sharp and makes a small cut in my thumb. The blood seeps out in an evergrowing drop. I swear briefly, replace the scalpel and stick my thumb in my mouth as I head to the bathroom. I get the first-aid kit from the cabinet above the sink and find a plaster. Before I attach it, I run cold water over my thumb until it feels almost numb. When the plaster is in place, I study it closely to see if the blood is still running, until the absurdity of the situation dawns on me.
I start to laugh. I can’t stop. My laughter grows louder and louder and I have to leave the bathroom to find enough room for the sound of my merriment. The whole house resounds and dust is lifted by my outburst. I start to gasp for air and have just about managed to control myself when I happen to glance at my thumb and start laughing all over again.
At last I stagger, still laughing, back to the dining table to make myself stop. The sight of the objects has the required effect and my laughter fades. I wipe the tears from my eyes and blow my nose in a piece of kitchen towel. My throat feels raw again and I drink more water.
My gaze lingers on each item on the table. I have collected them from all over the house, the kitchen, the bathroom and a locked shed outside, which I broke into with the poker from the cast-iron stand next to the wood burner. Ordinary things and tools you would find in most holiday homes. This is what I do, this is my strength: turning everyday objects into something that can wipe the smile off anyone’s face.
The light outside is fading. The days are short in December. It occurs to me that it’s nearly Christmas. The television hasn’t been on since my first night here, but now I turn it on and I see that the whole world is excited about the holidays. They’re showing the old Christmas movies, and advertising breaks are packed with colourful promotions for must-have plastic toys waiting to gather dust in children’s bedrooms. My eyes spurn the flat television image. I switch it off.
During the short time I have watched television, the last of the daylight has died away. I’m annoyed at having missed it and turn on the lights in the house. The final light I switch on is the outdoor lamp, which signals I’m ready. Then I chuck more logs on the wood burner. A large stack of logs from the shed outside is piled up next to it. More than enough.
It’s nearly time.
I listen out, but all I can hear is the roaring in the wood burner and the wind in the trees outside.