Death Sentence

know if he still lives there.’

‘I’ll find out,’ I said.

I have a sense of being halfway there.

Perhaps I’m being optimistic. Though I can see the road ahead, I know I will face further temptations in the second half. It will be difficult to resist shortcuts and leave out painful interludes, but I must persist, focus on the next step all the time.

My resolve is stronger than ever. I’m writing with greater confidence and I can work for longer periods without getting lost or taking breaks. Could it be that the critic is approaching? He has stepped out from the shadows and I sense him by my side, like a guide or a travelling companion.

But I’m alone.

I realize this when I look up from the screen and stare into the darkness. I listen out, but there is no advice or directions. My route is already determined and I must follow it if I’m to ever arrive.

So I turn my eyes back to the screen and take another step.

20

THE WEEKS THAT followed the publication of Outer Demons went by in a blur of interviews, meetings and appearances. I was expected to have an opinion on anything and everything from school bullying to prison sentences and – surprise, surprise – violence as entertainment and means of artistic expression. I was invited to parties, gala premiers and talk shows and I went to most of them.

Book sales soared. Translation rights to some territories were sold by auction and several companies expressed an interest in the film rights.

Soon the sales figures and the hype were so colossal that even the arty television book show On the Bedside Table had to admit defeat and feature me in an interview. The host was Linda Hvilbjerg, a journalist I had seen several times at Cafe Viktor, Dan Turell or one of the other bars where I had been partying in the wake of publication. We hadn’t spoken very much, but I got the impression she was a cold-hearted bitch. However, she was a stunningly attractive bitch. Dark, curly hair, brown eyes and a wide smile that almost blinded you. In the spirit of the programme she was discreetly dressed in a pale skirt and black blouse, which still managed to hint at a trim waist and a pair of firm, medium-sized breasts.

We met in the studio one hour before the start of the programme, which would be broadcast live. I was nervous. It was an important interview and I was intimidated by her. As I sat in make-up, my goal was just to get through it without her actually wiping the floor with me, so I was very surprised when she entered and greeted me profusely. She gave me a hug, praised my work and generally came across as open and approachable.

When the make-up artists had finished, Linda Hvilbjerg proceeded to offer me some of her own beauty powder, as she called it. She prepared four lines of white powder on a pocket mirror and quickly snorted two. Gripped by the mood and hoping to get my nerves under control, I took the other two. It didn’t take long before my anxiety had gone and I actually started looking forward to the interview.

We chatted and joked before we went on. I felt safe. It was as if we were sharing something important and I could tell her everything.

The studio consisted of two partitions with bookcases filled with fake book spines, a red velvet sofa for the guests and an armchair for the host. The style was elegant and subdued, with a deep carpet, standing lamps and dark colours. We sat down and while she reviewed her notes one final time, I took the opportunity to study my surroundings. Two cameramen were doing focus checks and beyond the cameras’ range there were cables everywhere and clusters of lights suspended from a grid in the ceiling. The crew seemed almost indifferent to us; as far as they were concerned we were merely part of the set.

The interview began and Linda Hvilbjerg opened by congratulating me on my success and the huge interest. Had I ever expected it? I replied – as I had done in the countless interviews I had given recently – that it was probably something you could never really prepare yourself for, but that I was enjoying it after having worked for it for a long time. We talked about the furore the book had caused and violence in the media in general. These were all questions I had been asked before and I knew the answers to them blindfolded, but even so, Linda, the atmosphere and – let’s not forget – her beauty powder made it resemble an intimate conversation rather than a hard-hitting interview. I gave more of myself than usual and felt good about it. She also flirted a little, which probably did no harm.

Halfway through the interview, she asked me how I managed to come up with all that horror and describe it in such detail that the images evoked were almost unbearable. I had answered that question before, but this time I didn’t fob her off with the standard answer.

This time I told her the truth.

Ironika was a huge part of my life when I wrote Outer Demons. My day revolved around her and, in her own way, she had been my inspiration. I would often carry her around the flat; she liked that. While she lay there, defenceless and filled with trust and love, I explored my greatest fear: what was the worst thing that could happen to her? Parenthood had changed my outlook on life, there was nothing I wouldn’t do for my daughter, and it was this total surrender that paved the way for an even stronger emotion: fear. What if anything happened to her? I conjured up my worst nightmares and examined my reaction. If I couldn’t bear to think about it happening to my daughter, I would use it in my book; otherwise I would dismiss it and carry on searching. To this end, I would wander around the flat rummaging through drawers for suitable instruments of torture and explore the most terrifying scenarios inspired by my fear.

The victims in Outer Demons were teenage girls, not infants, but the ideas behind what they were subjected to were rooted in my days with Ironika.

This was roughly the answer I gave Linda Hvilbjerg. A moment of silence followed and I detected a change in her eyes. Not revulsion or distance, but a kind of admiration or ecstasy. She carried on her line of questioning and asked about other sources of inspiration, which authors I read and who my role models were.

When the interview was over, I felt very pleased. Linda Hvilbjerg was downright elated. She claimed it was one of the best interviews she had ever done and she thanked me warmly. Her eyes had taken on a relentless aggression, a hunger that made me feel a little uneasy.

Intoxicated by her beauty powder and flattering attention, I was persuaded to go to a party with her. She had her party clothes in her dressing room and used the studio’s facilities to get ready. In the meantime I was installed in a sofa with a gin and tonic and a pile of magazines.

When Linda Hvilbjerg came out from make-up, she was transformed. The discreet bluestocking was gone and in her place there stood before me a red-carpet beauty in a clinging dark dress, white earrings and her hair piled up.

Embarrassed, I apologized for my own appearance, but she wouldn’t hear of it, grabbed me by the arm and led me to a waiting taxi.

The party was held in Norrebro in a large artist’s studio that had been taken over by an advertising agency and turned into their offices. There wasn’t a desk in sight. The floor had been cleared and lights mounted on the ceiling beams high above us. Professional DJs created an impenetrable wall of electronic music. Linda knew many of the people there, and I could make out a few familiar faces, but it was impossible to have a conversation.

We knocked back a couple of green cocktails and tried to dance, but we soon agreed that we were in need of something stronger. Linda gestured towards the lavatories and we made our way through dancing guests and conversations being shouted between frocks and suits.