A Conspiracy of Faith (33 page)

And then his father began to perspire, and his mother to protest. Who was he to speak to his father like that?

His mother would try to drive him into a corner. He knew her. She would tell him to vanish from their lives, and when eventually he was
exhausted by all their unreasonableness, he would slam the door behind him and stay away half the night. These were her tactics, and they had worked so often when things came to a head. But tonight they would fail.

He sensed his new body tighten, felt the blood pump in his veins, his muscles warming. If the clenched fist of his father should come too close, it would be met in kind.

“Leave me alone, you monster,” he warned. “I hate your guts. I hope you die, you bastard. Stay away from me.”

Seeing such a pious individual as their father disintegrate into a storm of invective only Satan could have delivered was too much for Eva. The retiring little girl who hid behind her apron and absorbed herself in her daily chores now leaped forward and pounded her fists against her brother’s chest.

He would not be allowed to ruin their lives more than he had done already, she screamed at her brother as their mother intervened to pull them apart, their father suddenly darting to produce two bottles from the cupboard under the kitchen sink.

“Get thee to thy room, Chaplin-devil, and scour thy walls with lye!” he hissed, his face flushed with rage. “And if you don’t, then mark my words I’ll make sure you can’t get out of bed for a week, do you understand me?”

And then his father spat in his face, pressing one of the bottles into his hand before standing back with a sneer to watch his saliva running down the boy’s cheek.

His son unscrewed the lid of the bottle and began slowly to pour its corrosive contents onto the kitchen floor.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing, boy?” his father bellowed, snatching the bottle from his hand. And an arc of caustic soda sloshed into the air and splashed to the floor.

His father’s roar was deep and resonant. But it was nothing compared to the scream that came from Eva.

Her entire body shook, her hands flapping in front of her face as though she didn’t dare to touch. In the few seconds that passed, the caustic soda ate into her eyes and removed her sight forever.

And as the room filled with their mother’s cries and Eva’s screams, and his own horror at what he had done, his father stood and stared at his hands as they blistered from the alkali, his face changing from red to blue.

Then suddenly his eyes widened and he clutched at his chest, doubling up and staggering forward, gasping for breath, lips twisted in surprise and disbelief. And when finally he fell to the floor, the life they had known was over.

“Lord Jesus Christ, Almighty Father, I rest in Thy hand,” he rattled with the last of his breath, and then he was gone. Arms folded in a cross on his chest, a faint smile on his face.

He stood for a moment and stared at his father’s frozen death mask while his mother begged for God’s mercy and Eva howled.

The thirst for vengeance that had kept him going for so many months had lost its source of nourishment. His father was dead from a heart attack with a smile on his face and the word of God on his lips.

It wasn’t what he had envisaged.

Five hours later, the family was split apart. Eva and his mother were in the hospital in Odense, and he was in a boys’ home. The congregation had taken care of matters, and this was his reward for a life spent in the shadow of the Lord.

Now all he had to do was to pay them back.

It was a gorgeous
evening. So still and dark.

Out on the fjord, the lights of a couple of sailing boats winked, and in the meadow south of the house, the grass whispered of spring. Soon the cattle would be out to pasture and summer would be near.

This was Vibegården at its best.

He loved the place. In time, he would render the redbrick walls, demolish the boathouse to get a clear view of the fjord.

This delightful little cottage was his. He would grow old here.

He opened the door of the outbuilding, flicked on the battery lamp that hung from a post, and emptied most of a ten-liter jerrican into the tank of the generator.

He always had the feeling of a job well done by the time he reached this stage in the proceedings, when he stood and pulled on the starter cord.

He switched on the electric light and turned off the lamp. In front of him, an old monument of an oil tank told of days gone by. Now it was to be put to use again.

He stretched up to remove the metal lid that had been cut out of the top, noting that the tank seemed to be dry and had thus been properly emptied the time before. Everything was right.

Reaching up to the shelf above the door, he brought down a duffel bag. Its contents had cost him more than fifteen thousand kroner, but to him the value of what was inside was priceless. Gen HPT 54 Night Vision turned night into day. Military-grade night-vision goggles, as used in combat.

He pulled the straps over his head, adjusted the goggles, and turned them on.

Then he went outside, following the garden path through the wet undergrowth and pulling the rubber hose that protruded from a hole in the wall of the outbuilding with him to the water’s edge. With the goggles on, he could clearly see the boathouse there between the thicket and the reeds. In fact, he could see everything.

Gray-green buildings, and frogs leaping for their lives as he approached.

Apart from the gentle lapping of the fjord and the hum of the generator, all was quiet as he waded out into the water with the hose.

The generator was the weakest link. Previously, he had kept it running during the entire procedure, but after a couple of years, the axle had begun to screech after only a week in use, so now he was obliged to make this extra trip to the house in order to start it up. He was thinking of getting a new one altogether.

The water pump, on the other hand, was amazing. Before, he’d had to fill the oil tank with water by hand. He gave a nod of satisfaction as he listened to the efficient gulping of the hose above the undertone of the generator. Now it took only half an hour to fill the tank from the fjord, though still it was time spent waiting.

And then he heard the sounds from the boathouse.

Since he bought the Mercedes, those he held captive were easily surprised. It had been expensive, but comfort and a soundless engine cost. Now he could sneak up to the boathouse knowing that whoever was inside would be unaware of his presence.

And so it was now.

Samuel and Magdalena were special. Samuel, because he reminded him of himself at that age. Resilient, rebellious, and explosive. Magdalena was almost the opposite. The first time he watched her through the peephole in the boathouse wall he was astonished to discover how much she reminded him of a secret love he had once had, and of what it had led to. Events that changed his life forever. Looking at Magdalena, he remembered the girl
only too well. The same eyes slanting down, the same pained expression, the same thin skin with its pattern of fine, blue veins.

Twice he had crept down to the wooden structure and peeled back the strip of tar that covered the hole.

And when he put his eye to the opening, he could see everything inside. The children a couple of meters apart. Samuel at the rear, Magdalena by the door.

Magdalena cried a lot, though quietly. When her frail shoulders began to tremble in the dim light, her brother tugged at his leather strap to catch her attention so that she might find comfort in the warmth of his gaze.

He was her big brother and would do everything in his power to release her from her chains, but he was powerless. And for that reason he too cried, though he wouldn’t show it. His sister wasn’t to see. He turned his head away for a moment, composed himself, and then looked at her again, clowning with his head and jerking his upper body.

Just like him and his sister when he imitated Chaplin.

He had heard the muffled sound of Magdalena laughing behind her tape. The smallest, briefest of laughs, after which reality and fear returned. This evening, as he came to quench their thirst one final time, he heard the girl humming ever so gently to herself even from a distance.

He put his ear to the planks of the boathouse wall. Even with the tape covering her mouth, her voice was clear and bright. He knew the words, for they had followed him throughout his own childhood, and he hated every one.

Cautiously, he removed the tar and put his goggles to the peephole.

Her head was bent forward, her shoulders drooping, making her seem smaller than she was. Her body swayed gently from side to side in time to the hymn.

And when she had finished, she sat back, drawing in air through her nostrils. Short, sharp inhalations. As with small, frightened animals, one could almost see how fast her heart had to pump in order to keep up with her thoughts, her thirst, her hunger, and the fear of what was to come. He turned his green gaze to Samuel and realized immediately that the boy had not succumbed in the same way as his sister.

He sat wriggling his upper body against the sloping wall. And this time he wasn’t clowning around.

This was the sound he had heard, which at first he had taken to be simply more discord from the generator.

It was obvious what he was trying to do from the way he rubbed the strap against the planks of the wall behind him, struggling to wear down the leather.

Perhaps he had found some little projection in the wood, a knot rough enough to provide the necessary friction.

Now he saw the boy’s face more clearly. Was he smiling? Had he made enough progress to make him smile?

The girl coughed. The damp nights had worn her down.

How frail the body is, he thought to himself as she cleared her throat behind the tape and began once again to hum.

He felt a shock. The hymn was a fixture of the funeral services his father had conducted.

He turned in disgust and went back to the outbuilding, where he pulled two heavy chains a meter and a half in length from a nail in the wall, then found two padlocks in the drawer underneath the workbench. The last time he had been here, he had noticed that the leather straps around the waists of the children had looked slightly worn, but then they had been used so often before. If Samuel carried on working as intensely as he was doing now, reinforcements would be needed.

The children looked up at him in bewilderment when he turned on the light and crawled inside. The boy in the corner struggled in his chains, but it was no use. He kicked out and protested vociferously behind the tape that covered his mouth as the new chain was placed around his waist and attached to the one that was already affixed to the wall. But he no longer had the strength to resist. Days of hunger and the awkward sitting position had taken their toll. He looked rather pathetic with his legs drawn up at an angle beneath him.

Like all the others before him.

The girl had stopped humming immediately. His presence drained what little energy she possessed. Perhaps she had believed her brother’s efforts would be of use. Now she knew that nothing could be more futile.

He filled the cup with water and tore the tape from her mouth.

She gasped, then stretched her neck out and opened her mouth. The survival instinct, ever intact.

“Don’t gulp like that, Magdalena,” he said softly.

She lifted her head and looked fleetingly into his eyes. Confused and afraid.

“When are we going home?” she asked, her lips quivering. No violent outburst. Just this simple question, and then she stretched again for more water.

“A day or two yet,” he said.

There were tears in her eyes. “I want to go home to my mum and dad,” she wept.

He smiled at her and raised the cup to her lips.

Perhaps she sensed what he was thinking now. In any case, she paused and looked at him for a moment, her eyes moist, then turned her face toward her brother.

“He’s going to kill us, Samuel,” she said in a trembling voice. “I know he is.”

He turned his head and looked straight at the boy.

“Your sister’s confused, Samuel,” he said in a low voice. “Of course I’m not going to kill you. Everything will be fine. Your parents are wealthy, and I am not a monster.”

He turned again to Magdalena, whose head hung low now, as though she had given up. “I know so much about you, Magdalena.” He passed the back of his hand over her hair. “I know how much you wish you could wear your hair short. How dearly you’d like to be able to decide things for yourself.”

He put his hand in his pocket. “There’s something I want to show you,” he said, producing the sheet of glossy paper he had taken from her hiding place in the garden.

“Do you recognize it?” he asked.

He sensed her surprise, though she concealed it well.

“No,” she replied.

“Oh, but I think you do, Magdalena. I’ve been watching you with your little secrets there in the garden.”

She turned her face away. Her innocence had been violated. She was ashamed.

He held the paper up in front of her. It was a page torn from a magazine.

“Five female celebrities, all with short hair,” he said, then read out their
names: “Sharon Stone, Natalie Portman, Halle Berry, Winona Ryder, and Keira Knightley. I’m afraid not all of them are familiar to me, but I’m pretty sure they’re all film stars, is that right?”