Bad Intentions
Ruth laughed heartily. She carried some extra weight, and she was used to Molly being direct.
‘So what’s keeping you awake?’ she asked.
‘I’m thinking about Jon. And everything Jon said. And how to manage without him.’
‘There are other people out there you can trust,’ Ruth said. ‘Time is on your side. You’ll find someone.’
‘But no one is like Jon,’ Molly said. ‘And what we had, I’ll never find that again.’
Ruth patted Molly’s cheek with her chubby hand.
‘Did he ever tell you what was on his mind?’ she asked.
Molly sat up in bed. She pulled the duvet to her chin. ‘Yesterday I saw a man on TV,’ she said. ‘He was one of those explorers. He was going to live in the wilderness for thirty days. In Canada. Where the Inuit live. He packed everything he would need on a sledge. It weighed a hundred kilos. He could barely drag it across the ice.’
Ruth waited for her to continue.
‘Jon’s conscience was that bad,’ Molly said. ‘He had so much to drag along.’
Ruth sighed. ‘He never should have gone to that cabin,’ she said. ‘He didn’t want to. Perhaps he sensed that something might happen. All the staff here at Ladegården feel responsible. We so wanted him to go. God knows what we were thinking. But if he had killed himself here on the ward, we would have felt even more responsible. And if we had discharged him and he had killed himself afterwards, then we would also have felt responsible. And if he had done it at home in his own bed, then his mother would have felt responsible. Do you see what I’m saying? That’s how it is with suicides.’
Molly held Melis up to her face. She inhaled his smell. It made her think of sweet spices.
‘If you like, we can visit his grave one day,’ Ruth said. ‘You and I together. We can take some flowers. We can say a few words and imagine that they’ll reach Jon. You never can tell.’
Molly shook her head. ‘He won’t hear one word,’ she said. ‘Of that I’m certain.’
‘Molly,’ Ruth implored. ‘You need to hold on to some mystery in your life. You don’t know everything.’
‘Those friends of his,’ Molly said. ‘Do you think they were good friends?’
Ruth frowned. ‘You mean the ones who took him to the cabin? I imagine so. They had known each other a long time. Why do you ask?’
Molly returned Melis to the foot of her bed. ‘Not all friends are good ones,’ she said. ‘Some are there purely out of habit. Or because they benefit from knowing you.’
Ruth listened in silence.
‘They profit from you,’ Molly continued. ‘Or they need you for some reason. To outsiders, it looks like a friendship.’
Ruth tried to follow her thoughts.
‘But if Jon didn’t want to be a part of that trio,’ she said, ‘then why didn’t he end the friendship?’
‘Perhaps that was what he was trying to do,’ Molly said. ‘Perhaps he sought refuge here, at the hospital.’
‘You’re saying he was escaping from his friends?’
‘He was trying to hide here,’ Molly said, ‘but they came and got him.’
‘Why do you say that?’
Molly tossed her head. ‘I notice things.’
‘You’re going to be all right, Molly,’ Ruth said, ‘because you’re sharp.’
‘I’m not going to be all right,’ Molly said, fluffing her pillow gently. ‘I’m going to be here at Ladegården for ever. In this bed. In this room. With you.’
Ruth was wise and so she did not protest. ‘Perhaps,’ she said. ‘Perhaps we’ll both be here for ever, you and I.’
She got up from Molly’s bed. Her heavy body moved across the floor.
‘You remind me of a container ship at sea,’ Molly said.
Ruth grunted by way of reply.
‘You lie quite low in the water. And you’re heeling a bit. But your sails are full, I’ll give you that.’
‘Go to sleep,’ Ruth laughed, ‘and give that sharp tongue of yours a rest.’
CHAPTER 13
Ingerid Moreno was standing by the window.
Her hands were resting on the windowsill. She still wore Tony Moreno’s ring on her right hand. He had left her, but she liked the ring with the pink pearl. Her eyes swept across the garden and the other houses in the residential area where she lived. Everything was pretty, well maintained and green, every hedge trimmed, every fruit tree pruned, because the people who lived there were hard-working. For a long time she admired birds on a branch, the early autumn foliage and the damp grass. Tumbling clouds, the sound of music from an open window, all these things Jon had lost. She turned and glanced at the coffee table where the diary glowed red. I may not have the right, she thought, but I’m a human being in need. She curled up in an armchair with the diary on her lap. On the back of it she discovered a white label with the text MADE IN CHINA and also a yellow price sticker. This is Jon’s life, she mused, and the price is 29.99 kroner. She switched on the reading lamp and opened the first page.
My name is Jon Moreno. I’m a patient at Ladegården Psychiatric Hospital and I have sat down to write. Is there any point in writing things down?
Will everything become clearer, will it be a relief? Does it serve as a confession, and as a result will I be forgiven for everything? I need absolution. But I have ended up in a situation where it is unobtainable. People will say that my actions were unforgivable and that is true. But if I don’t confess then I will go tainted to my grave. I don’t believe in God, but I cannot bear the thought of being consumed by remorse in my final hour. But then there are always other considerations. There are other people and their dreams and plans for the future. Should I destroy even more than I have already? I’m not very strong. Sometimes, at night, when I lie in the darkness, tossing and turning, I end up praying to God anyway. It helps for a few minutes. Then I feel even more of a fraud than before because I’m praying to someone I don’t believe in, but then again He might exist and He is watching my hypocrisy and that makes it even worse. When I finally fall asleep I have nightmares. Someone is hammering on my door, they have come for me and it’s all over. Perhaps I have this dream because deep down this is what I want. Someone to expose me finally and call me to account. That black December night haunts every second of my life. When I woke up the next day, I felt confused. I tried to recall what had happened. Did we drive off the road and end up in a ditch? Perhaps that’s one way of looking at it: we lost our way and I’m still in that ditch. I have been so privileged. I had a good childhood. My mum taught me right from wrong. All my life I have imagined that my morals were high, that I was decent and honest and truthful. But what happened to my morals when I was tested? A nasty voice started whispering in my ear: it was all right to run away, besides there were more of us, a lot was at stake. I don’t understand where that voice came from, I didn’t know it even existed. Perhaps it had been dormant for a long time and then, when I needed it, it started its vile whispering. Reilly does have a conscience, he is a humble guy, but Axel Frimann is a Master of the Universe. It was a battle of wills I was bound to lose. No matter how I handle this I will be exposed to contempt. At times I can see the contours of a devil, someone who watched us that night and laid a trap for us. I know that’s nonsense. Life is full of coincidences. Yet I feel so bitter because we’re not bad people. How can you know you’re a good person if your life has been nothing but plain sailing?
CHAPTER 14
Axel Frimann had his own office in the advertising agency Repeat, and he had personally designed its elegant interior. That was how he saw himself: he had style and class – and most people agreed with him. This was Axel Frimann’s kingdom. In here he ruled supreme, in here he was creative and inspired, in here he would seduce people through the power of advertising, and he was an expert. He understood its psychology and mechanisms. He knew the power of humour and the importance of laughter, which made people open up, allowing the message to pour in, slip past every barrier. He wa
s doodling on a notepad when one of his colleagues entered.
‘It looks like we’re getting the new razor account,’ he said. ‘It’s made in Norway. It’s called Hellrazor. Cool name, don’t you think?’
He waved a sheet of paper. ‘They hope to force Gillette out of the Norwegian market, no less, and that’s why they’ve hired us. So you know what your remit is. And they don’t want us replicating an old pompous approach. We’ve got to come up with something completely new.’
‘Hellrazor?’ Axel enthused. ‘The razor from hell. Those guys have a sense of humour, we can work with that.’
He snatched the sheet. He studied the picture and the text, the razor, its features and hyped-up superiority.
‘Let me guess,’ he said. ‘Hellrazor shaves closer than any other razor?’
His colleague shrugged. ‘I presume so. After all, it’s brand new.’
Axel shook his head and smiled. ‘But, really, how much closer can they shave?’
His colleague gave him a baffled look. ‘I suppose they’re using new and better materials,’ he said. ‘Who cares? All we’ve got to do is make sure it sells, and better than Gillette, if possible.’
‘Then this is my idea,’ Axel said, ‘to get the message across once and for all.’
He reclined in his chair and took a deep breath.
‘A couple is asleep in bed. Black silk bed linen, white walls and curtains. Sun beaming through the window. Are you listening?’
‘Yes,’ his colleague said.
‘The alarm clock goes off, the man wakes up and embraces his beloved. He is unshaven, so we add a horrible rasping sound effect – sandpaper on sandpaper for example. The woman pushes him away and goes into the bathroom. He follows her. The bathroom’, he added, ‘has black tiles and recessed lighting. White china suite from Porsgrund and a lily in a wall-mounted vase. The man puts on a dressing gown and stands in front of the mirror. He picks up the razor while she cleans her teeth.’
Axel Frimann paused.
‘And then?’ his colleague said. ‘What happens?’
‘He’s finished shaving. He goes to her for another hug. After all, he’s just shaved. But above the collar of his dressing gown all we see is his skull.’
‘Eh?’
‘The razor has gone right to the bone,’ Axel said. ‘All we see is his smooth, white skull. And then a voiceover at the end: “Hellrazor. You’ll never have a closer shave.”’
‘Pull the other one,’ his colleague responded. ‘It’s got bells on.’
‘I’m deadly serious,’ Axel Frimann said. ‘That kind of ad would match the name, and we’re talking about a bloody close shave, aren’t we? So we’ll give them a skeleton. We’ve got to address a younger, trendier market, and humour is very important.’
His colleague disappeared, slamming the door behind him. Ten seconds later he opened it again and looked in.
‘That’s not an ad,’ he said. ‘It’s a mockery.’
He disappeared for the second time. Axel, however, was delighted with the idea. An ad like this would get everyone talking because it was outrageous, daring and witty. It would win awards. He chewed his pen. The violent burst of creativity had left him, he was alone and it grew silent around him. The silence made him feel like he was floating. He was overcome by the urge to bark orders, slam his fist on the table, bang on a door to show he was still here and still in charge. Something had started to trouble his otherwise tightly controlled universe: a tiny prickle when someone knocked on the door, a pounding heart whenever the telephone rang. A feeling that someone was following him when he walked down the street, a new awareness of sounds and footsteps, at night thoughts of detectives in an office discussing whether Jon really killed himself. Axel Frimann was restless. The light from the window irritated him, and then the silence was broken by a series of noises from the big building, doors slamming, telephones ringing, someone laughing – what the hell were they laughing at?
His world was cracking up, flaking like dry paint. He experienced a heightened sensitivity everywhere as if life, which had so far never touched him, was suddenly sticking needles into his body. He raised his hands and studied them closely: the pale skin on his palms, the fine lines. Many of the lines were broken, weren’t they? He leaned forward and rested his head on the desk, pressing his cheek against the warm wood. He picked up the scent of oak and furniture oil. I’m sitting here, Axel Frimann thought, and I’m alive. How does the body know when the end has come? Who decides when the heart beats for the last time, is there a code deep inside us, a limited amount of energy which we can consume, as when you wind up a toy?
Axel Frimann was not used to contemplating death. It made him edgy. His heartbeat felt a little irregular, he thought, his forehead clammy. He was also aware of a slight toothache, a molar in his lower jaw, only mild pain, though, of no consequence. He straightened up in his chair. Baffled, he stroked his chin. Yes, intermittent pain as though a tiny creature lived inside his tooth. He imagined a tadpole wiggling, not constantly, but at regular intervals. It became a more niggling pain, or rather it was like a faint vibration at the root of the tooth. He bent over his papers to continue his work, trying to focus on Hellrazor. He was still adamant that his skeleton in a dressing gown concept would work. But soon the niggling turned into more persistent pain. Axel Frimann felt a surge of irritation. He did not allow unexpected things to happen. Either I’ll have to go home, he thought, or I need to take some painkillers. This is bloody annoying.
He left his office and went outside, where his secretary, Ella, was sitting in front of her computer.
‘Do you have some paracetamol? Axel asked.
She gave Axel a warm smile and picked up her handbag. She rummaged in it for a moment. He could hear clattering from its depths.
‘Sorry, I’m afraid not. Try Margaret.’
Axel plodded down the corridor. His normally broad shoulders drooped. He knocked on Margaret’s door before entering. She was standing by the photocopier. Steam was coming from a mug of coffee on her desk.
‘What’s the matter?’ she asked.
‘I’ve got toothache,’ Axel explained. ‘Do you have some paracetamol? Or something stronger?’
‘Hang on, I’ll check,’ she said and sashayed over to her desk. She had no chance with Axel, but she had never stopped hoping, and her bottom was undeniably her best asset. She pulled out a drawer and searched among pens and paper. She dumped a pile of stationery on the table, a pair of scissors, a glue stick, sticky tape and a box of paperclips.
‘I usually have some,’ she said, ‘but I’ve run out. Ask Jørgen. Jørgen suffers from migraines. He’s bound to have an emergency supply.’
Axel Frimann knocked on Jørgen’s door.
‘Jesus Christ, what’s wrong with you?’
Axel slumped in a chair. He pressed his hand to his cheek and gave him a suffering look.
‘Something’s wrong with my jaw,’ he said. ‘I’ve got this stabbing pain. I think it’s an infected root, I can feel it all the way down my jaw. Do you have some paracetamol?’
But he left Jørgen’s office empty-handed too. Axel had to go back. He shuffled down the corridors, opening one door after another pleading his case like a beggar. There was the guy in the basement office, he remembered, who delivered the post. Didn’t he have rheumatism? And then there was Randi in the canteen, she was over sixty and must be afflicted by a range of ailments, wear and tear, he thought, pain in her neck and shoulders. The reception desk on the ground floor was staffed by a thin girl who always looked very pale. Her face was a mesh of green veins and her hands always trembled. Anaemic, he thought, and anorexic. Stress and possibly headaches. He wandered down the corridors, knocking on door after door, but everyone shook their head regretfully.
No one could put Axel out of his misery.
CHAPTER 15
Dear diary,
I’ve started looking at people as if seeing them for the first time. When I go out for a walk in the hosp
ital park, I notice that they are lit differently. It’s something to do with the way the sun hits them, it makes their faces glow. That guy on the bicycle, for example, who passed me this morning, he would never have acted as carelessly as I did. He would have taken responsibility and done the right thing. I could see it in his eyes and in the way he held his head. Because he knows he is worth something, he knows that he is a good person. In his life there are clear rules which he always follows. The old lady holding the granny trolley who came out of the shop, she is bound to be the sort who helps insects to their freedom. And the shop assistant in the baker’s where I bought rolls yesterday, the girl with the round cheeks, she is goodness itself. I used to be one of them. Once I belonged to this exclusive group of people with a clear conscience. It’s hard to look people in the eye. My voice has lost its power. I’m waiting for the axe to fall, and I know it will. How quickly it can change, the life we think has been marked out for us. We start the journey with good intentions, the gift our parents bequeathed us. And then, someone snaps their fingers and we find ourselves sidetracked; we end up in a foreign country. Suddenly we think differently about everything, we are in alien territory and other rules apply there. I no longer recognise my own life. I have lost my way, and the thing that happened is not fading away, either. I’m almost too scared to open a newspaper or switch on the radio because of what they might say and how much they will have found out. It’s a miracle that I still walk around a free man.
CHAPTER 16
The dentist diagnosed that Axel had an infected wisdom tooth. The tooth was on the left side of his mouth.
‘From the outside everything looks fine,’ the dentist said, ‘but it’s rotten to the core. It’s often the way,’ he joked.
He held up the X-ray up to the light and pointed.
‘I’ve never seen the like, though,’ he said. ‘It’s aggressive. I’ll need to open it up and clean it out. And I’m afraid you’ll have to brace yourself for a certain amount of discomfort.’