‘There was …’
‘Yes?’
‘A key,’ she mumbled. ‘He dropped a swipecard … when he pulled out the envelope … number 87.’
‘A hotel keycard?’
Marie nodded at first, but then she shook her head.
‘Not for the Marieborg,’ she said. ‘For the BunkInn.’
‘Hotel BunkInn, are you sure?’
She nodded slowly and with every nod her eyelids lowered. I shook her again, but she didn’t react. A small smile formed around her lips and she sank into the seat as if she could pass through its molecules.
I pulled away from Marie and stared at her. Now what? Should I leave her or wait? She had given me something to go on, but perhaps she knew more? Could I be sure that her memory was accurate?
I switched off the light in the car.
It was now very dark, but I could still see the outline of her. It started to get cold so I leaned over to put her back in her jacket. Her thin arms were limp and only reluctantly agreed to being stuffed into the sleeves again. It reminded me of the last time I got someone dressed. My daughters, oblivious in sleep and completely floppy as if their bones had dissolved. In this state they were helpless, trusting, at the mercy of those around them.
Having fumbled with the zip, I pulled it all the way up to Marie’s neck. She muttered to herself and shifted in the seat until her head rested against the window. Part of me wanted to stay there, watch her sleep, but another part urged me to move on. I had got what I came for. I had no idea how long she would be out of it and I felt a growing sense of impatience.
Marie didn’t react when I started the engine and drove back to Istedgade. The windows kept steaming up and I had to wipe the windscreen several times until the car had warmed up again. I drove up and down Istedgade a couple of times before I found Monica. She was getting out of a car, a small red Seat, and stretched her long body as the car accelerated and disappeared.
I drove closer and rolled down the window. ‘Monica!’
‘Hey, take it easy,’ she said, trotting towards me. ‘There’s plenty to go around.’ It took a moment before she recognized Marie and then me. ‘What the hell, it’s you again?’
‘Hello, Monica.’
‘You found her, I see.’
‘Yes, thanks,’ I replied. ‘But she needs some help getting home.’
‘What the hell have you done to her?’ Monica’s voice hardened.
‘Nothing, she shot up in my car.’
Monica grunted and looked at Marie then back at me. ‘And why is that my problem?’
I tried to smile. ‘Because you’re a good person and I’ll give you five hundred kroner.’
‘You bet I’m a good person,’ she replied and held out her hand.
I gave her the money and Monica pulled Marie to standing as if it was a daily occurrence. As soon as they were out of the car, I shut the door and drove off. In my rear-view mirror, I could see the two girls clinging to each other as they staggered down the pavement.
It was almost half past three in the morning when I parked the car in front of the hotel. No one noticed me. The hotel was deserted and quiet. Exhausted, I walked through the lobby and straight to the lift. It started moving and I looked at myself in the mirror. My face was red and shiny with sweat running from my forehead. My eyes were bloodshot. It was a pathetic sight of a pathetic man. I had just helped a girl take heroin and then abandoned her to a life more horrifying than anything in my books. The ping of the bell snapped me out of my trance and I stumbled out on my floor.
Back in my room I drank tap water until I couldn’t swallow any more. Then I dumped my clothes in a heap and collapsed on the bed. I realized how tired I was, but in a sudden flash of panic I got up and went over to the coffee table. There I found a pen and wrote ‘Marie – 87’ on a scrap of paper. I stared at it for a long time before going back to my bed and burrowing under the duvets with the note in my hand.
How old was she? Twenty? Eighteen? Younger? When had it started? When she was Ironika’s age?
24
THE DAYS AFTER Line had left me were terrible. As I couldn’t get to talk to her by telephone or by turning up at her father’s house, I wrote to her instead. I was taken back to my school days when we’d conquered girls’ hearts with our poetry, and though I never spoke to her directly, I sensed my letters had some effect. I had never written anything so straight from the heart; never before had I bared my soul the way I did in the missives I sent to her every day.
I told her how much I missed my little family, why I had said the things I had, and what was going on in my mind and in my now very empty life.
At the same time I worked on getting my apology through via Bjarne and Anne. They spoke to Line several times and I pleaded with them to pass on my feelings to her. Even though they too thought I had messed up, they soon started feeling sorry for me. I think they made it their mission to reunite us.
My life was still turned upside down because of the book. There were interviews and events I had to attend, but I hardly touched alcohol or drugs in that period, and I made sure I was at home as much as possible in case Line called. I passed the time doing all the little jobs I had put off in the last couple of years. DIY jobs around the flat, clearing out the basement lock-up, sorting out paperwork.
The breakthrough came after ten days of silence from Line. I was invited to dinner at Bjarne and Anne’s and Line would be there too. ‘We’ll be able to enjoy the girls’ cooking, just like the old days,’ Bjarne declared. I was overcome by enormous relief, which was almost instantly replaced by anxiety. How would I make her take me back? I had been thrown a lifeline and if I didn’t make the most of it, I would never forgive myself.
In the two days before the dinner, everything revolved around preparing for seeing Line. I had my hair cut, I bought new clothes, a blazer and a blinding white shirt, and I memorized questions to ask her, neutral questions that weren’t about me, my books or what had happened, but questions about her and Ironika. I even took up running, which was rather silly as I only managed one run and nearly injured myself in the process. But it felt good. My aching body after my first run in seven years was proof of my commitment to this enterprise.
On the day itself all I did was get ready. I ironed my shirt, styled my hair and doused my body with scent. I left home in plenty of time, bought flowers on the way and tried to cycle at a sedate pace to avoid sweating. But it wasn’t the bike ride that made me sweat, it was my nerves. I took off my jacket and stood outside the stairwell for a couple of minutes to cool down.
‘Someone’s had a makeover,’ Bjarne exclaimed, grinning. He was wearing jeans and a T-shirt, his usual uniform, and I suddenly felt like an idiot. In my shirt and blazer I looked like a cake decoration. I quickly took off my jacket and rolled up the shirtsleeves, while Bjarne enthused about tonight’s menu.
‘The girls are in the kitchen,’ he said eventually, glancing at my bouquet.
I thanked him and walked through the living room and out into the kitchen with a dry sensation in my throat. I was met by loud laughter, and the sight of Line made me stop in the doorway. She was standing sideways, leaning against the kitchen table with a glass of wine in one hand. Her teeth showed as she laughed heartily and a small tear trickled from the corner of her eye and down her cheek. The girls carried on laughing until Anne noticed me.
‘Hallo, Frank,’ she exclaimed and raised her glass to me.
Line turned to face me. She seemed to be studying my shirt briefly, but then she smiled.
‘Oh, are they for me?’ Anne asked, reaching for the flowers.
I cleared my throat. ‘Actually, they’re for my wife,’ I stammered.
