Bad Intentions (18 page)

"Neither do I," he said.

"And it's well matured now," she went on, as though she hadn't heard him. "Remember, it needs to be served at room temperature."

He accepted the cognac ship. He felt like an idiot.

"I don't drink cognac," he repeated.

She continued to ignore him.

"You never know what life might throw at you," she went on, "and the day will come when you'll need a stiff cognac, believe you me. Then you'll be glad you have some Larsen. Real men drink cognac," she concluded.

He nodded. He moved toward the door in an attempt to leave. She followed him in her creaking sandals.

"I was wondering," she said. "Do you still see Valentino?"

She meant Axel.

"Is he one of those who prefer men?" she wanted to know. She winked at him as she said it.

Reilly shrugged his shoulders. "That's just a joke. He flirts with everyone."

"He certainly is a bit peculiar," she said, shaking her head. Her curls didn't move. She was smiling now. Women tended to do that whenever they thought of Axel Frimann.

"I need something to carry this in," Reilly said.

She popped into a closet and came out holding a horrendous plastic bag with pink handles.

"That's the worst bag I've ever seen," he said. "I can't walk down the street with that."

"Have you turned into a showoff like Axel?" she asked.

That evening he got very high. Then he went on the Internet to read about the revolver he now owned. There were several models, but he soon pinpointed the one lying on the table. It had been in his family since the war and was a British handgun produced by the government-owned Royal Small Arms Factory in Enfield. The first model was used by the police and a later one had been standard issue in the Second World War. The revolver weighed 765 grams and the chamber held six bullets. He also learned that when he cocked the hammer he could fire all six bullets in one sequence. He got up from his chair, raised the revolver and aimed it at a jar on the windowsill. Axel may have made plans, he thought. But with this in my hand, I'm in control.

S
EJER WAS KNEELING
by his wife's grave, shivering in the cold. His dog, Frank Robert, waited patiently while he dug at random in the soil of the small bed where nothing grew. Please forgive me, Elise, he was thinking, I could have brought a rose. But the years pass. I've stopped looking over my shoulder. I know now that you won't be there. Yoo Van Chau is still sitting in her chair listening out for footsteps. In brief moments she forgets what has happened. It takes a long time before it sinks in.

He got up and stuck his hands in his pockets.

But I won all the same, he thought. I won the biggest prize life's lottery had to offer. I found you, and I got to have you with me for many years.

Elise. My first prize.

He left the cemetery and, still shivering, headed for the riverside promenade. It started to rain. The river was more turbulent than usual. It tumbled by with unstoppable force and whipped
up white foam around the bridge supports. He followed the whirling currents with his eyes; they looked like boiling black cauldrons in the water. The rain got heavier. The dog looked up at him. Isn't it time we got going? it seemed to be thinking. It's freezing cold.

The worst thing about losing someone, Sejer thought, is the fear of further loss. One brick falls out and the whole wall is at risk. After the death of Elise he had grown terrified of losing his daughter. He imagined that his wife's death had pointed a spotlight on his family, and in its revealing glare the devil himself could see them and would strike again.

"We are going to stand here for a while and be cold," he told the dog.

"We owe that to Elise."

That night he had a dream. It was evening, and he was waiting at a bus stop with Frank Robert. After a long wait the bus arrived with lit-up windows and they both went inside where it was warm. Sejer rummaged around in his pockets for loose change and temporarily had to let go of the leash. Before he had time to turn around, Frank had jumped off the bus. He was just about to run after him when the accordion-style door closed and the bus drove off. Sejer asked the bus driver to stop.

"You'll have to wait. I've got a timetable to stick to."

"How far is the next stop?" Sejer asked.

"Far," the bus driver said. "Sit down."

He found a seat by the window. He was unsettled because he had lost Frank. He stared out of the window. It was dark outside and there was not much to look at. He did not know where he was, either, it was an unknown landscape, and he could not see how Frank would be able to find his own way back to the apartment. His imagination worked overtime. The dog might get run over by a truck and would have to be carried off in a sack.

He continued to stare out of the window. No one was out in the cold and there were long stretches with no lights. When the bus finally stopped, he jumped off and started running back. He kept calling Frank Robert's name. He zigzagged across paths and tracks and through small groves, but the small gray Shar-Pei seemed to have vanished into thin air.

A girl appeared in the dark.

"There's a kennel up that road," she said. "They take all the strays there."

She pointed as she told him this. Sejer started running again. He reached a building that looked like a barn, found the entrance, flung open the door and explained why he had come. A man took him to a large room. Sejer looked inside and his heart sank because he knew he would never be able to find Frank among this multitude of dogs. They were all Shar-Peis and they were all gray.

He awoke with a start. He lay awake for a long time. How can I apply, he wondered, what I have learned, my knowledge of grief and death? How much can words help? I could come up with an explanation and give it to Yoo Van Chau, but that would not be enough. She wants it to make sense. What would she say if I were to tell her she had won first prize in life's lottery? He switched on his lamp and looked down at the floor. Frank Robert was sleeping with his head on his paws.

A
XEL TURNED UP
that Friday at six o'clock in a silver Nissan Micra.

"What is that?" Reilly said. He gawped at the small vehicle.

Axel patted the roof of the car. "It's a rental car," he said. "The police have picked up my Mercedes and taken it to forensics."

"Why?"

"It needs to be examined as part of their investigation," Axel explained. "We've got to make do with this."

Reilly looked at the car dubiously. He was holding a bag. Inside it was a warm sweater. Wrapped in the sweater were the Koran and the Enfield revolver with six bullets in its chambers. At his feet stood a small travel kennel. The kitten peered nervously through the bars.

"Are you sure that's a real car?" Reilly said. "And not a Christmas decoration?"

"Have you got the letter?" Axel asked. "Give it to me. I want to have a look at the damn thing."

Reilly pulled the envelope from his back pocket.

Axel tore out the sheet and held it up to the light.

"No self-respecting man would use this kind of stationery," he said. "This is a woman's writing paper."

He folded the sheet, put it in his pocket and opened the trunk. Reilly placed his bag next to Axel's backpack and a cardboard box of groceries.

He left the kennel with the kitten on the back seat.

After a few kilometers the kitten started to drool. "He's travel-sick," Reilly explained.

"Is he going to throw up?" Axel frowned.

"If he does, he'll only throw up inside the cage," Reilly said, "and I've lined it with newspaper."

Axel braked and turned into a Shell gas station. "I forgot something," he said. "Won't be a minute."

He disappeared into the shop and returned with a shopping bag. Reilly heard him open the trunk and rummage around. Then he was back behind the wheel.

"I've bought some great food," he said. "Free-range pork."

"What kind of pork is that?" Reilly asked.

"From pigs that have been reared out in the open. They've never been confined in crates with other pigs."

Reilly wondered if Axel might be having a laugh at his expense.

"You want me to believe it tastes better than any other pork?"

"Of course. A free pig is a happy pig, and a happy pig is a tasty pig."

"Now I get it," Reilly said. "A happy pig is a more expensive pig. And we can't tell the difference anyway."

"I can," Axel said. "Pigs in crates can't even turn around. They spend their whole lives standing up, crammed together, biting each other."

"I can't imagine who might have sent that letter," Reilly said.

It was nearly nine in the evening when they pulled up at the grass bank in front of the cabin. They made two trips with the luggage, which they dumped on the floor, and then they lit the paraffin lamps. Reilly disappeared into his bedroom. He placed his bag next to his bed and made a disturbing discovery. The zipper was not completely closed. Hadn't he shut it properly? He unzipped the bag and looked inside. At the top lay a shopping bag from Shell containing paprika-flavored chips.

"Did you open my bag?" he called out.

Axel called back. "Is that a problem? My backpack was full."

Reilly rummaged around in his bag. He made sure that the revolver was still there, inside the sweater. This new situation unsettled him. Perhaps he had already lost control? He shoved the bag under his bed, stood up and chewed his thumbnail.

"Are you coming?" Axel shouted. "We need to start cooking the pork." He looked in to see Reilly standing by the bed.

"What's up? You look weird."

Reilly let the kitten out of the cage. It padded around and explored every corner of the room. Axel went back to the kitchen. He opened the package of pork fillet and held the large, pink lump of meat in his hands.

"Here's the free-range piggy," he said, "and look how happy he is."

He took a knife from a drawer and placed it on a chopping board. It was a heavy-duty knife with a rubber handle, a long slim blade and a blood groove. A knife like that handles well. Reilly shuddered. It has superb grip. That knife can cut straight to the bone. He started to sweat. He was not sure he was in control. His body yearned for the feeling of well-being which the drugs normally induced. Perhaps he ought to get high?

"Peel the potatoes," Axel ordered him. He shoved a bag in Reilly's direction.

Reilly kept an eye on the kitten, which was still wandering around the cabin.

"We need to keep the doors closed," he remembered. "If the kitten gets out, he won't be able to find his way back."

"But he was born here," Axel reminded him. "And he needs to pee and much more besides. Go and find an old crate in the shed and make some sort of litter box for him. Get some sand from the shore."

He cut the meat into suitably sized steaks, lit the gas stove and melted butter in the frying pan. He set the table and opened a bottle of red wine.

Later, over dinner Axel looked at him for a long time.

"How long have we known each other?" he asked.

Reilly did the mental arithmetic.

"We first met when we were six years old and now we're twenty-five. That's nineteen years."

He stuck his fork into the free-range pork.

"Friendships like that don't grow on trees," Axel said. "Nineteen years. That's a lifetime."

Reilly nodded.

"It takes a long time to build a friendship," Axel went on. "Think about all the people you meet during your life. At different stages. At nursery and at school, when you're traveling or studying, at work. At parties, in the street and in shops. How many of them become friends for life?"

Reilly waited for Axel to continue.

"Hardly any of them," Axel said. "Friendship is worth much more than love. Friendship is a commitment. Don't you agree?"

"Yes," Reilly said.

"I think Jon reneged on his obligations," Axel said.

"We'll never know," Reilly said.

"The letter," Axel said.

"The business with the letter is totally bizarre," Reilly said, "but we can't blame Jon because we can't be certain."

They looked at each other across the table.

"It's noble of you to think well of Jon, but being naive is dangerous." Suddenly he smiled a warm and broad smile. "A toast to humanity," he said, raising his glass. "A toast to God and His mysterious ways. And a toast to women who spread their legs for us. At least if we ask them nicely."

After dinner they walked down to Dead Water.

From the shore they studied the surface of the lake, and they were mesmerized by its black sheen.

"Dare we go out there?" Axel said.

"In the boat, you mean?"

"No, on foot."

Reilly snorted.

"Everyone can walk on water," Axel claimed. "It's merely a matter of weight distribution."

Reilly picked a rush and started chewing it. He moved a couple of steps to the side. He did not like Axel being too close; you never knew what was on his mind. But Axel copied his movements.

"Don't let them get you," he said. "Don't let them put you in a cell. It'll kill you."

Reilly stared at the point where Jon had let himself fall into the water. "I'm going to die sooner or later," he said. "It's just a matter of time. I thought we agreed on that."

"Listen to me," Axel said. "This is serious. You will go mad. You won't be able to take drugs either, not regularly, anyway. You'll be sitting on your bunk, your teeth chattering, and no one
will care about you. The prison service doesn't waste resources on someone like you. They can't be bothered to rehabilitate a scabby old drug addict. No one will visit you either. Who would come, Reilly? Do you think Nader will turn up and read aloud to you from the Koran?"

Reilly started walking back toward the cabin. He wanted to be with the kitten. He needed to get high. He wanted to curl up in a chair in front of the fire. Axel's words were starting to get to him.

"Putting someone in a prison cell is a form of assault," Axel said.