Time was about to run out; she knew that. Anxiety and relief grew inside of her at the same time. The almost five years in this loathsome captivity was consuming her, but eventually it would have to come to an end. Of course it would.
By the time New Year’s Eve arrived in 2006, the pressure in the room had long since been increased to six atmospheres, and since then all of the fluorescent lights but one had flickered constantly. A festively clad Lasse appeared, together with his mother and brother on the other side of the mirrored panes to wish Merete a Happy New Year, adding that this would be the last New Year of her life.
“We know the date of your death, if we think about it, don’t we, Merete?” he’d said at the time. “It’s so logical. If you add up the years and months and days that I was forced to be away from my family until the day when I captured you like the animal you are, then you’ll know when you’re going to die. You must suffer in loneliness exactly as long as I did, but no more. Figure it out, Merete. When the time comes, we’ll open the airlock. It will be painful, but it probably won’t last long. The nitrogen has been accumulating in your fatty tissues, Merete. Of course you’re very thin, but you have to remember that there are pockets of air everywhere inside your body. When your bones expand and the bone fragments start bursting inside your tissues, when the pressure under your fillings makes them explode in your mouth, when you feel the pain whistling through your shoulder and hip joints, then you’ll know that the time has come. Figure it out. Five years, two months, and thirteen days, starting on March 2, 2002, then you’ll know what it will say on your tombstone. You can always hope that the blood clots in your lungs and brain will paralyze you, or that your lungs will explode and knock you unconscious or kill you fast. But don’t count on it. And who says that I’ll let it happen quickly?”
So she was going to die on May 15, 2007. If she was right in calculating that today was February thirteenth, then it would be ninety-one days from now — exactly forty-four days since the start of the new year. She had lived every day since New Year’s Eve in the awareness that she would put an end to things before they ever reached that date. But until that time, she was determined to carry on, ignoring all gloomy thoughts and cherishing the best of her memories.
This was how she was mentally preparing herself to say good-bye to the world. She often held up the tongs to look at the sharp jaws, or picked up the longer plastic stiffener from her jacket and considered snapping it in half and sharpening the two pieces on the cement floor. It was going to have to be one of these tools. She would lay down in the corner under the mirrored panes and puncture the arteries in her wrists. Thank God they were easy to see, since her arms were so thin.
It was this state of mind that had kept her going until today. After the airlock delivered the food bucket, she once again heard the voices of Lasse and his mother outside. Both sounded irritable, and their argument took on a life of its own.
So the bastard and the bitch don’t always see eye to eye, she thought. This cheered her up.
“What’s the matter, little Lasse, can’t you keep your mother under control?” she shouted. Of course she knew that an insolent remark like that would bring reprisals; she knew what the witch out there was like.
But it turned out that she didn’t know her well enough. She’d thought the woman’s spitefulness would mean she’d get little or no food for a couple of days. Merete had no idea it would rob her of the right to determine her own life.
“Watch out for her, Lasse,” snarled the old woman. “She’ll turn us against each other, if she can. And she’ll cheat you, believe me. You’d better watch out for her. She’s got a pair of tongs in there, and she could easily try to use them on herself if need be. Do you really want her to have the last laugh? Do you, Lasse?”
There was a pause that lasted only a couple of seconds, then the sword of Damocles was hanging over her head.
“You heard what my mother said, didn’t you, Merete?” His voice sounded cold coming through the loudspeakers.
What good would it do for her to reply?
“From now on, you’re keeping back from the windows. I want to be able to see you at all times. Get it? Move the toilet bucket over to the far wall. Now! If you in any way try to starve yourself or hide or injure yourself, I promise you that I’ll lower the pressure in the room faster than you can react. Then if you stab yourself, the blood will gush out of you like a waterfall. You’ll feel everything exploding inside before you black out, I promise you. I’m going to set up cameras so we can observe you night and day from now on. We’ll aim a couple of floodlights at the windows at full power. And I can change the air pressure by remote control, by the way. So you can go to the guillotine now, or you can wait until later. But who knows, Merete? Maybe we’ll all drop dead tomorrow. Maybe we’ll be poisoned by the lovely salmon we’re going to have for dinner. You never know. So just hold on. Maybe one day a prince will arrive on a white horse and give you a lift. Where there’s life, there’s hope — am I right? So hold out, Merete. But stick to the rules.”
She looked up at one of the panes. She could just barely make out Lasse’s silhouette. A gray angel of death — that’s what he was. Hovering out there in life, nursing a sick, sinister mind that she hoped would torture him forever.
“How did you kill your foster father? The same bestial way?” she shouted, expecting to hear him laugh. But she didn’t expect to hear the other two laughing as well. So all three were out there now.
“I waited ten years, Merete. And then I went back, with forty pounds more muscle weight, and with so much contempt for the man, I thought that, alone, might be enough to kill him.”
“And you figured that would get you some respect?” she retorted and then laughed at him.
Anything that might rain on his victory parade was worth dishing out.
“I beat him to death. That made him respect me, don’t you think? Not exactly a refined method, but so what? I took my time bashing him to pieces. I wanted to give him a taste of his own medicine — nothing else would satisfy me.”
Merete felt her stomach turn over. The man was completely insane. “You’re just like him, you ridiculous sick animal,” she whispered. “It’s too bad you weren’t caught back then.”
“Caught? Did you say caught?” Again he laughed. “How would that happen? It was harvest time, and his old, piece-of-shit reaping machine was standing ready, out in the field. It wasn’t hard to tip him into the machinery once it was going. He’d always had lots of peculiar ideas, the prick — such as going out to work in the fields at night. So no one was surprised when he died that way. And he wasn’t missed, let me tell you.”
“Oh, you’re really a big man, Lasse. I’m so impressed. Who else have you killed? Do you have something more on your conscience?”
She hadn’t figured he would stop there, but she was still deeply shocked when he told her how he’d exploited Daniel Hale’s profession to get close to her, and how he’d impersonated the man and then murdered him. Daniel Hale had never done anything to Lasse; he just needed to be eliminated so that Lasse’s real identity wouldn’t be revealed by chance. And the same went for Lasse’s helper, Dennis Knudsen. He too had to die. No witnesses. Lasse was cold as ice.
“My God, Merete,” she whispered to herself. “How many people have you destroyed without even knowing it?”
“Why didn’t you just kill me, you asshole?” she shouted at the window. “You had the chance. You said yourself that you’d been watching me and Uffe. Why didn’t you just stab me with a knife when I was out in the garden? I’m sure you were there, weren’t you?”
For a moment he didn’t speak. When he did, he carefully enunciated each word, so she’d understand the depth of his cynicism. “First of all, that would have been too easy. I wanted us to watch you suffer for the same amount of time as we had. Besides, dear Merete, I wanted to get close to you. I wanted to see you vulnerable. I wanted to shake up your life. You were supposed to learn to love this Daniel Hale, and then you were supposed to learn to fear him. You would take one last trip with Uffe, convinced that something remained unresolved and waiting for you when you came home. That gave me a great sense of satisfaction, I want you to know.”
“You’re sick in the head!”
“Sick? Am I? I can tell you this is nothing compared to what I felt on the day I found out that my mother had applied to the Lynggaard Foundation for help so she could move back home after she was discharged from the hospital. Her application was denied on the grounds that the fund was intended exclusively for use by the descendants of Lotte and Alexander Lynggaard. My mother was asking your fucking filthy-rich foundation for a
