My clothes were soaked in blood so I went upstairs and searched her wardrobe. All of Linda’s clothes, sorted according to colour, lay in neat piles or were suspended from hangers. The insides of the doors were mirrored. I froze temporarily when I caught sight of my own reflection. My hair was tangled, my eyes red from crying and my body and legs covered in blood. I felt even worse than I looked.
The only suitable item of clothing her wardrobe could offer me was a white shirt. I took it and went out into the bathroom. There I washed the blood off my body as well as I could and put on the shirt. Then I went down to the hall and put on my bloodstained trousers, socks and shoes, and jacket.
I picked up her car keys from the floor where they had landed when I emptied her handbag and took one last look into the living room where Linda’s body hung from the landing. Again, I was overcome by nausea.
I pushed down the door handle firmly and opened the front door.
There was a thud at my feet.
An object had been leaning against the door and it fell over when I opened it.
A book.
32
AFTER LINE LEFT me, I stayed with Bjarne and Anne. The first few days were almost like the Scriptorium days with whisky and deep conversations until the early morning hours, but Bjarne and Anne both had jobs to go to and soon I felt like a relative who has outstayed their welcome. I checked into the Marieborg Hotel, my first encounter with the hotel that would later feature in
Deep down I think Bjarne and Anne were glad to see the back of me. I was their friend, but I knew they believed the break-up was entirely of my own making. It was my fault that Line had left me and I had lost the most precious people in my life through my own carelessness. They never said so directly, but I could see it in their eyes and hear it in the silences that followed whenever I entered the room. There was nothing for it but to move out.
There were still talks to give and receptions to go to and, as I didn’t fancy sitting alone falling apart in the cottage, the hotel proved to be the answer. It was cheap and relatively near the city centre.
There was no need for me to be bored. Wealth and fame means it is never hard to find company and company was what I craved. Every time I was on my own, I had a panic attack. It was like sinking into a dark ocean. The shadows of strange creatures swam around me, but only rarely came close enough for me to be able to make them out. Sometimes they were mermaids in the shape of the Line or the girls, other times they were shapeless crossbreeds of marine animals and mammals.
It was highly likely that these visions were the result of the alcohol and drug abuse I was undertaking with the commitment and precision of a participant in a highly amoral research project. I consumed doses in exact quantities and at such intervals that enabled me to party for as long as possible without feeling either too much or too little. I balanced on a knife edge, constantly focusing on my next fix: an upper or a downer, a beer or spirits. Fortunately, I had the money to buy whatever I wanted, and when the money is there, getting booze, drugs or friends is never a problem.
I met a lot of people whom I mistakenly believed to be my friends. They were on the same ride as me, a roller-coaster in permanent motion with our hands raised high above our heads and our eyes staring straight ahead. Every night we met up at Dan Turell, Konrad, Viktor or whichever bar was the ‘in’ place that week and prescribed for one another throughout the night until the place closed or some woman dragged me into a taxi. There were plenty of women and there were several days in a row where I didn’t sleep in my hotel bed at all. I wouldn’t feel remorseful until the next day and even then my contrition only lasted until I had had my first drink. I slept with Linda Hvilbjerg a couple more times – this was before I vented my spleen on her – and a paparazzo managed to snap a photo of us together at a party. This wasn’t something that worried either of us. The following week we were photographed with other people and soon Linda in general and me in particular were regular fixtures in the gossip columns. Or so I was told. I didn’t read them myself and nor did I care all that much except when the women I tried to chat up in bars turned me down with a snooty comment that they had no wish to be on a tabloid front page. Still, it never deterred me from moving on to the next woman who either hadn’t heard about my escapades, wasn’t bothered or actively courted publicity and viewed me as a shortcut. There was a surprisingly large number of the latter.
The circle around me grew. Some joined, others dropped off, but eventually I had acquired an entourage. They followed me everywhere, but I usually picked up the tab. At the start it didn’t worry me. I had plenty of money. But I slowly realized they had no intention of ever getting their wallets out.
One night I spotted Mortis. He was sitting on the edge of the group, close enough to be part of it, but so far away that he could leave unnoticed.
I didn’t confront him immediately. Instead I carried on buying rounds, which he was quick to accept, and I watched him when he wasn’t looking.
He was, if possible, even paler than I remembered him, his black hair long and lank. A trench coat hung over his frail body and underneath it was a white shirt that didn’t appear to have been washed for a long time. Mortis, along with a couple of other guys, seemed to thrive on the periphery. They had formed their own club within the club and they were laughing at their own jokes, which were out of my earshot. I had a growing suspicion they were laughing at me.
A couple of hours later I could no longer ignore them.
‘Bloody hell, isn’t that Mortis?’
He was startled and, for a moment, looked like a thief caught red-handed.
‘It certainly is,’ he said, and tried to smile, revealing a row of yellow teeth.
‘Bloody hell … how long has it been? Three, four years?’
He shrugged. ‘You could be right.’
‘So what are you up to?’
‘Well, you know … a bit of writing,’ he replied. He emptied his glass and looked expectantly at me.
I ordered another round. He grabbed the glass with gratitude.
‘You’re doing all right, eh?’ he said, nodding to me. ‘You’ve managed to get your … books published?’ He spat out the word ‘books’ with an ill-concealed snarl that caused those sitting closest to snigger.
‘I can’t complain,’ I replied. ‘How about you? Have you got your tattoo yet?’
Mortis glared at me and drank his drink before replying. ‘Not yet.’
Some people started an animated discussion about tattoos and those who had one showed it to the others in the group. This new game generated excitement and we became the centre of attention. Mortis look away when I took off my jacket and shirt to boast of my ISBN tattoo. He said nothing the rest of the evening; he simply knocked back the drinks that were placed in front of him. I didn’t expect to see him again, but he appeared the following evening and watched from the sidelines without joining in.
Late one night I had finally had enough. It wasn’t only Mortis. I was surrounded by five or six scroungers who had no intention of contributing and weren’t even capable of entertaining me; they merely grinned and nodded every time I said something.
I don’t even think they heard what I said because when I told everyone to get lost, they didn’t react. When I repeated it and this time added ‘parasites’, a couple of them laughed, but when I shouted it a third time, the smiles disappeared and the grinning subsided as they exchanged nervous looks. The fourth time it finally sank in and they did as they were told, but not until they had knocked back the drinks I had just paid for. They filed out of the bar, a few muttering insults such as pretentious git, skinflint and drama queen.
Mortis said nothing, but smiled with infuriating superiority and touched an imaginary hat as he left.
Everyone in the bar was staring at me, but I turned my back on them and ordered another bottle. I had had it
