It took me a couple of minutes to get my breathing under control. I heard someone call out and a door nearby being closed; apart from that, it was quiet. The bottles underneath me felt like a pile of stones, but I didn’t dare move even though my body ached all over. The crash might have woken up the whole block, but I prayed that no one had seen me and that the noise had echoed around the walls so its origins couldn’t be identified. I lay there for another five minutes to make absolutely sure.
The door to the balcony couldn’t be opened immediately. The bottles had rolled everywhere and in order to make room for the door, I had to move several of them while remaining unseen. My ribs hurt with every movement and I was forced to pause to catch my breath. At last I had cleared enough space to open the door and sneak inside.
When I could lie down on my back on the living-room floor, I allowed myself to moan loudly. I examined my ribs again, but could find no sign of fracture.
The flat was quiet. All I could hear was my own laboured breathing. The place smelled stuffy and close. The balcony door might have been ajar, but not enough to air the room. I was lying on a parquet floor and a short distance away from me was a dark leather sofa, an armchair and a coffee table. Empty bottles and cups of cold coffee and cigarette butts were scattered across the table. What appeared to be big frames of some sort were lined up against the walls and it wasn’t until I had closed the blinds and switched on the light that I realized the frames were bookcases, empty bookcases.
I was taken aback. Mortis loved books and a home without books would be anathema to him. The TV stand was also empty. A black square in the dust revealed that a television had sat there until very recently.
In the hall lay a huge pile of newspapers and post, mainly bills. They had been pushed to one side behind the door so you could just about open it. I found what I was looking for: Mortis’s spare key hanging from an elastic band right next to the letter flap so you could pull it out with a finger, if you knew where it was. My ribs protested and I cursed loudly.
I found the most recent newspaper and checked the date. It was over a month old. Had Mortis moved, done a runner or was he just too lazy to sort his post?
The bottle collection carried on into the kitchen and the fridge was just as empty as the bookcases in the living room. Plates, glasses and pizza boxes littered the worktops and the sink. Only a few clean plates were left in the cupboards.
I pushed open the door to the bathroom. The light was already switched on and revealed walls of yellow plastic with rounded corners, which were probably easy to clean, but reminded me of a passenger ferry. It stank of urine and the toilet bowl was brown from limescale and muck. An empty gin bottle lay in the sink. The shower curtain was mouldy and pulled across.
I was just about to switch off the light and close the door when something made me stop. As I was there I might as well make sure I hadn’t overlooked anything. I went back, grabbed the shower curtain and prepared to fling it aside. I held my breath. My brain and my heart had already told me what I would find, the biggest horror film cliche of them all, a body in the bath, naked, pale and staring at me with accusing eyes.
With a brisk movement, I opened the shower curtain.
Mortis lay curled up in the shower tray. His long body was folded up in the small space, but he wasn’t naked and he wasn’t staring at me with dead eyes. He looked like he was asleep. His hair was shoulder length, wispy and had acquired streaks of grey since the last time I saw him. He wore a white shirt with yellow stains; a pair of black jeans concealed his skinny legs. His feet were bare and practically ashen.
I squatted down and held out a hand to him.
‘Morten.’
His shoulder was scarily fragile and I took care not to shake it too violently. I pressed a couple of fingers against his neck. There was a pulse; it was weak, but it was there.
At that moment Mortis’s body jerked, he opened his mouth and threw up all over my hand in an odd mechanical movement. I leapt up and took a step backwards.
‘Bloody hell, Mortis,’ I cursed. I washed my hands while keeping an eye on him. My concern had turned into irritation.
He didn’t move, but started to snore, loudly and regularly. Nor did he react when I straightened him up in the shower cubicle. His head lolled from side to side and he coughed once, but he accepted being moved into an upright sitting position. He stank of vomit though he clearly hadn’t eaten for a long time.
I swore again, took the showerhead and hosed Mortis’s stomach contents down the drain, before directing the jet of water at him. Eventually the water soaked into his greasy hair and flowed down his face and chest.
He tried to move his head away from the water, but I followed him and turned up the cold water. He spewed bubbles and rambled some swear words.
‘Morten!’
His eyelids twitched and deep furrows emerged on his forehead.
‘It’s me, Frank!’
His lips appeared to repeat my name and the furrows grew deeper. Suddenly his eyelids sprang open and he stared directly at me.
‘What the hell,’ he muttered.
I turned off the water. ‘Are you OK?’
His gaze was swimming and his half-open eyes looked around the bathroom and down his clothes before returning to me. ‘Frank?’
‘From the Scriptorium.’
‘Yes, yes … what an honour.’ Mortis swallowed a couple of times before expelling a long belch. ‘I don’t remember … I don’t remember inviting you.’ He shut his eyes for a moment, but then he glared at me. ‘Why can’t a man be allowed to party in peace?’
‘Party?’
‘Yes, for Christ’s sake, party … you know … it’s … what day is it?’
‘Friday.’
‘That’s right!’ He had barely spoken the words before his head slumped on one shoulder and his eyes closed.
22
BJARNE ARRIVED AT one o’clock in the morning.
I called him from Mortis’s mobile and he hadn’t sounded surprised. Anne drove the car, a Volvo of a square design, spacious and with seatbelts everywhere. She parked right outside the entrance door so Bjarne and I could easily lift Mortis on to the back seat.
He was still unconscious. Occasionally he would mutter to himself, but he hadn’t opened his eyes or spoken coherently since the shower cubicle. None of us said anything on the way back to their flat. Anne made up a bed in the spare bedroom, my old Scriptorium room, and Bjarne and I took off Mortis’s clothes, dressed him in an old pair of Bjarne’s pyjamas and put him to bed.
‘Just like the old days, eh?’ Bjarne said, as we watched our sleeping Scriptorium brother.
I laughed briefly, at the same time thinking this was nothing like the old days.
Bjarne promised to keep Mortis indoors for a couple of days. He didn’t want to know the reasons for my request; to him it was enough that our mutual friend needed help. I think he felt ashamed at his failure to respond when Mortis contacted him a couple of months ago. He ought to have known, he said over and over.
Once Mortis was safely installed, I left Bjarne and wandered down to the Lakes. I sat down on a bench and stared across the water. Neon advertisements reflected in the surface of the water, but numerous little waves
