‘You’ll just have to celebrate without me,’ she says trying to sound kind, happy and exuberant. And she is, she really is, for him.
‘So when is it official?’ she asks. ‘Can I tell my friends the good news?’
‘Of course you can,’ he says. ‘But I’ve got to go now, darling. Love you.’
Emilie doesn’t reply straightaway. Then she says, more quietly than she had planned to: ‘I love you too.’
Chapter 26
The doorbell rings.
He turns around and frowns. He doesn’t remember the last time he had visitors.
Probably someone trying to get into one of the other flats, he thinks. Or one of his neighbours who has accidentally locked themselves out again. That must be it.
He turns his attention back to the computer monitors. World of Warcraft on one. Facebook on the other where he has clicked on a profile he visits every day even though it always hurts.
The doorbell rings again. He tilts his head slightly and gets up from his chair reluctantly. Shuffles towards the door and looks through the spy hole.
A man he doesn’t remember seeing before is standing outside next to a woman. Plainclothes police officers, he thinks, and is immediately gripped by panic, but he forces himself to think rationally. Even if they are police officers, this can’t possibly be about that old witch.
Or can it?
The man looks like a local politician. Long and lean with thin, grey hair. Can’t be too difficult to knock out. The woman doesn’t look very tough, either. Maximum 1.65 metres. Practically flat-chested. Skinny arms.
He opens the door and is blinded by the light outside. He has to shield his eyes with one hand in order to see them.
‘Hello, we’re from the bailiffs.’
The man introduces himself and the woman beside him, names he instantly forgets.
‘Perhaps you know why we’re here?’
He looks at them and shakes his head. He leans against the door frame and feels the pointy, cold edges of the steel lock.
‘You haven’t paid your rent for a long time and as a result you were issued with an eviction notice in accordance with the Eviction Act paragraph 13 section 2. This notice was sent to you and you were given fourteen days to move out. But I can see that you’re still here. Haven’t you packed your stuff yet?’
He had completely forgotten that notice. He has been lost in a world of his own in the last few weeks. And before that he always thought that he would find a way out, that he would be able to get hold of money from someone other than his mother.
The debt collector tries to look over his shoulder, but he blocks his path.
‘I’m sorry, but there is no way around this.’
The debt collector’s words fall like hammer blows. A taste of metal has settled on his tongue. He hugs himself, looks at the young woman with her blonde, shoulder-length hair. There is a hint of contempt in her eyes. And he feels the urge to—
‘So am I right in thinking that you’re not able to move out today?’
He turns his gaze to the debt collector again.
‘No, I – I—’
‘Okay,’ the man says turning to the woman next to him. ‘You’re lucky; you’ve a very kind landlord. He has said he’s willing to give you another three days, but that’s the absolute final deadline. We’ll come back at ten o’clock on Thursday morning and change the locks. So you’ve got three days. That should be more than enough.’
The debt collector seems to be expecting some kind of response, but it is not appropriate to nod or to thank him. So instead the man nods by way of goodbye and they start walking back to the stairwell and the lift. He takes a step back inside and closes the door behind him.
Three days, he thinks when everything around him is quiet again. What the hell is he going to do? He certainly can’t ask his mother if he can move back home again for a while.
With heavy footsteps he plods back to his desk and the computer monitors. The back of the chair creaks as he sits down. It creaks in his brain as well as if the bones inside his head are stretching.
Again he stares at her Facebook profile and the status she posted just after eleven o’clock this morning. Now with forty-nine likes and thirteen comments. Another one is added while he watches.
And that’s when the rage overwhelms him.
Just as well you ended up with Mattis. It could have been much much worse ☺☺☺. Looking forward to hearing all about it tomorrow. Hugs and kisses. JK
He shakes his head, feels a lump in his stomach and clenches his fists. Something cold pricks him in the back of his neck and turns into a restless itch he has to scratch. A light he just has to extinguish.
Chapter 27
To dread coming home is the worst thing.
Or rather, Johanne Klingenberg doesn’t dread it because Baltazar will be there waiting for her, always happy, always eager for her company, but she has been on edge since the break-in – how long has it been now – two weeks ago?
She returned home after a lecture and got a strange feeling that someone must have been in her flat because Baltazar acted so out of character when she went up to greet him. As if he wasn’t sure that she was someone he recognised or that she was a friend. It wasn’t until she poured him a little milk and gave him some treats that she was allowed to stroke his neck and back.
She didn’t get truly scared until she saw the damaged picture on the wall. And the red stain next to Baltazar’s basket. It looked as if someone had smeared blood across the floor. She immediately checked the cat and discovered that he hadn’t hurt himself.
Johanne proceeded to check out the rest of the flat, tiptoeing as quietly as she could from room to room and brandishing a kitchen knife. She wrenched open cupboards and doors in case someone was hiding behind them, but she found no one. Even so she called the police. She knew that these days they can identify a criminal from only a single hair or a trace of blood, but the officers who turned up told her she would just have to be patient. Such tests took forever to carry out. And when the sample finally got to the front of the DNA queue, it would only prove useful if they found a match – something for which there was absolutely no guarantee.
It might have been easier to forget the whole thing – after all nothing was taken. But there have been other incidents. On several occasions she has been absolutely sure that she was being followed, both when she has been for a night out or making her way home after a lecture. Once she saw a man in a khaki army jacket press himself against the wall one hundred metres away from her. He had been staring at her and he had had a camera. The strange thing was that she was sure she had seen him somewhere before, she just couldn’t remember where.
Fortunately she doesn’t believe anyone is following her today. Or yesterday, now that she thinks about it. Perhaps that is why the lecture is still buzzing around her head. Though to call that a lecture is insulting to lecturers. Reading out loud would be a more accurate description. Like sleeping tablets without the need for a prescription.
Johanne had hoped that she would start the new term invigorated after a long warm summer, but from day one she could feel it, the weight of something starting to oppress her. She didn’t want to be there. She was quite simply fed up, fed up with marketing and the crackle of stiff new books being opened for the very first time. But she made herself get out of bed the next day and the day after and decided to put it down to a post-holiday depression that would lift of its own accord once she got back into the routine. But it hasn’t passed. Everything just gets drearier and more exhausting.