Death Sentence

up to here with all of them. Every single one of them wanted my money, free drinks or a little touch of stardust by touching the hem of my robe. At that time reality TV shows had become big business and I had watched with revulsion how programmes such as Survivor and Big Brother attracted the very types who had gathered around me like flies.

I downed a couple of drinks, for once not thinking about the effect. This was about getting drunk on my own. I had no need of deadbeat friends who were there only for a thrill. No more wannabes, thank you very much. No Survivor centrefolds looking for the experience of a lifetime. Piss off, amateur singers who expected TV to give them an instant career that required no sacrifices. Go away, brain-dead teenage hopefuls who thought being famous was a job. Get lost all of you who believed there was a shortcut to fame and that it came without a price tag. I had toiled for mine. And I paid the price. A high price. So high I could barely recognize my own life any more.

The outrage grew inside me until I couldn’t contain it any longer.

The bottle of booze of which I had drunk nearly half was standing on the counter. I grabbed its neck and smashed it against the edge of the bar. Then I spun around and screamed for anyone looking for a life-changing experience to come and have a go. I would change their lives beyond recognition. They wouldn’t need a television or a desert island to feel alive; I could take care of that right here and now, free of charge.

At first there was silence.

I waved the bottle in the air and carried on yelling. Was anyone looking for a new direction? Who wanted to be catapulted out of their humdrum lives, like they all secretly hoped and prayed for? Conversations resumed as if nothing had happened. Raising my voice made no difference. No one dared look at me, for fear of drawing attention to themselves. That didn’t stop me. If anyone wanted to change their life, all they had to do was come over and I would take care of it.

I was seized from behind by two bartenders, one for each arm. One of them hammered my wrist into the counter so I dropped the bottle. People in the bar tried to ignore the incident, but they watched out of the corner of their eyes. I was still howling, called the bartenders and everyone present the worst names I could think of. They frogmarched me through the room and out into the street where they pushed me so hard that I landed in the road. I sat up and carried on ranting while they went back inside the bar. One of them stayed behind the door, keeping an eye on me.

I don’t know how much time passed, but at some point a police car arrived and took me down to the station. I only remember glimpses from that night. I was led down deserted, neon-lit corridors that reminded me of a World War II asylum. I went berserk again, out of fear this time, and more police officers appeared. The next thing I remember was my belt and my shoes being taken from me. Then the cell, an ice-cold concrete box with a steel toilet and a thin mattress. After they had closed the door, I screamed abuse for a while. How long for, I don’t know. At some point I must have fallen asleep. I woke up the next morning stiff and sore all over.

I had lost my voice and the desire to use it. I felt revulsion towards city life and the company of others so when I was released I went straight to the hotel, packed my things and left Copenhagen.

Three months had passed since Line threw me out, three months where I had constantly been under the influence of alcohol, drugs or both. I couldn’t even remember if I had enjoyed myself. All the days merged into one. I had visited the same bars, met the same people and heard the same stories. Even the women I had seduced were foggy memories where, at best, all I could remember was the colour of their hair or the bedroom I had woken up in the next day.

Nor had it been cheap. Three months in a hotel was a huge extravagance and I didn’t even dare think of how much money I had spent drinking. I could afford it, no doubt about that, but when I reflect on what I got out of it, it was the worst investment of my life. My reputation was in tatters and the acquaintances I had made were worthless beyond the saloon bar and the fellowship of intoxication.

All I wanted was to be alone and avoid other people as much as I could. The cottage was the answer. Initially I had regarded it as somewhere to store my stuff until I found a place in the city, but now I had the option to disappear, barricade myself in for as long as I wanted. It was early spring, towards the end of March, and the holiday season wouldn’t start for a long time so I would be undisturbed, left to wallow in my own misery.

Even the drive up there was liberating. The further away I got from the city, the easier it became to breathe. The darkness I had found myself in slowly faded and grew lighter until it dissolved completely as I drove up the gravel drive to the Tower.

My belongings had been moved up there a couple of months ago and the boxes were still in the middle of the living room where the removal men had left them. The air was damp and stuffy so I opened all the windows and doors and went outside. I hadn’t been there for more than six months and the garden was in a sorry state. There were fallen branches everywhere, blown down during the winter, and the grass was yellow after the winter snows.

Though there was just about enough wood to light a fire, I took off my jacket and split ten or fifteen logs myself. It was hard work, the sweat dripped from me and my wrists ached, but at the same time it was incredibly good to feel my body again. Back inside I closed the windows, lit a fire and sat down in front of the flames with a glass and a bottle of whisky.

At that moment, I never wanted to leave the cottage again. Ever.

However, that wish lasted only as long as it took me to drink the house dry. I was forced to go out, though the very thought of other people made me sick. Even the sound of voices made me close windows and doors and lie down on the sofa with a blanket over me. I had unplugged the telephone after it rang twice. It was with great wariness that I made my first foray to the shop. I executed my mission like a soldier from a specialist unit, get in, get out, no hesitation or impulse-buying, and it was a success. Nothing happened. I wasn’t attacked and no one tried to talk to me. Slowly, I gained more confidence and eventually I was following a routine that became my life for the next two months. Every morning I would buy fresh bread, six strong beers and a miniature of Gammel Dansk bitters. I would drink the miniature on my way home. It was still early spring, so the warmth from the alcohol was as welcome as a warm coat. I washed down my breakfast with some beers, after which I went out into the garden. There I would chop more firewood, cut the grass or carry out other strenuous tasks.

Pleased with my efforts, I would reward myself with a few more beers, at which point I would discover that I had none left. This always came as a surprise and a second trip to the shop for more soon became a regular feature of my day, something you could set your watch by. The second trip was by bike, an old gentleman’s bicycle that had come with the house when we bought it. The chain was rusty and several spokes were missing or bent, so I must have been a pathetic sight, a long-haired, bearded creature on a rattling boneshaker, stamping on the pedals and swaying my upper body from side to side.

As the days passed, people got used to me, and on my late morning trip I always encountered the same two or three men sitting on the stone circle outside the shop. They greeted me faithfully every time, but to begin with I didn’t deign to look at them. I didn’t need human contact and I certainly wasn’t in need of drinking companions. I managed perfectly well on my own, thank you very much.

After the trip to the shop, my day consisted of sitting on the terrace if the weather stayed dry or in the living room in front of the stove if it rained and working my way through the day’s catch. Typically this meant ten or fifteen strong beers or a bottle of spirits, sometimes both. I often bought some food, but more often than not I didn’t get round to eating it.

The day would end with me falling asleep in front of the stove.

Writing was out of the question. I had lost the urge and the mere sight of books made me want to throw up. Four of the removal boxes in the living room were full of books, but I couldn’t bring myself to unpack them. The boxes remained unopened, a constant reminder of the life I had left behind.

One night, I tried to burn some of the books. The flames turned blue as they ate their way through the cover and the laminate bubbled like boils while the illustrations darkened until they were black all over and caught fire. The pages burned badly because they were too dense and I had to break them up with the poker to make them burn properly. It was slow and laborious work and failed to provide me with the satisfaction I had expected, so after three or four books I gave up.

One day, on my way to the shop for that day’s rations, I noticed that one of the men on the stone circle was holding a book. Even from a distance, I recognized it as Outer Demons. I was on the verge of turning around and probably would have done so had I not been as parched as I was. I ignored the men on my way in, but on my way out I couldn’t help glancing at them. There were three of them. Two of them were sitting