The Hanging Girl (31 page)

Saturday, May 10th, 2014

There were two women
crying in the front row. Not Ronny’s wife, who wasn’t even there, or his sister or, for that matter, the girl who lived on the neighboring farm and who for some bizarre reason had always dreamt of being his. No, these were two other women, who stared up at the casket at regular intervals, and just as regularly and mechanically reached for the handkerchiefs in their laps to dry their eyes.

“Who on earth are they?” Carl asked the people in the pews in front of, behind, and next to him, but no one knew. The only thing anyone knew was that nobody else in the church was crying, not during the hymns and not during the odd collection of sentimental sentences about a time with Ronny long past, read out by the vicar in accordance with his testamentary wishes.

“They’re hired mourners,” whispered Assad. “I asked them. I was curious because they’re sitting in the front row.”

Carl frowned. Hired mourners?

“Yes. They said it was written in Ronny’s will that someone had to be hired to cry in church. It was kind of expected, he wrote. So that’s them.”

Carl nodded and looked up at the casket. Exotic, maroon, probably heavy as hell. Only half covered in flowers. No flowers in the aisle. Twenty-odd people in the church, and two of them hired, with a third only there as Carl’s companion.

Carl thought that hiring mourners showed dedication to the Old Testament, and that Ronny was to be congratulated, because who else would
have cried for him? He considered how Ronny had killed his dad, or at least claimed he had, and walked all over people like a complete bastard all his life. How he’d lied and cheated and left people in a mess, so who would cry? His mother? She died long ago—could that have been Ronny, too? His airhead of a soy-sauce-colored brother who only cared about what this show might wield? Other family members? Nope, Ronny had got it right. He’d had to hire a couple of mourners. That was good thinking, and Carl thought he ought to respect him for that at least.

Carl was staring out into space for a minute while the organ player changed register, now playing at full blast, which had an immediate effect on the mourners’ performances.

Who knew what would happen someday, when it was his casket lying there. Who would cry then? His indifferent stepson, Jesper? His ex-girlfriend, Mona? His ex-wife, Vigga? His parents, who would probably be long gone? Unlikely. His older brother, who was completely lacking in emotion, and various hangers-on? Hardly.

But Hardy, then? If he was still alive, and someone would do him the favor of arranging the transport, wouldn’t he be there? Wouldn’t he at least show some sign of sadness? Morten certainly would. As soon as he saw the casket, he’d collapse on the floor, wailing with bloodshot eyes. But then again, he acted that way when he saw a fluffy kitten being licked by a puppy on YouTube. Somehow it didn’t really count.

And then of course there was Assad.

He looked at the man, who was innocently trying to sing along. Touched, Carl automatically put his hand on Assad’s arm and patted it gently. Yes, he would be the only one there.

Assad stopped his song practice. “You’re patting my sleeve, Carl. Is there something you’d like to say?” he whispered.

Carl felt a smile creasing his cheek. He’d probably said all he would and could for now.

*   *   *

Restaurant Hedelund was the place where Carl had given the first and only speech of his life. Newly confirmed, his hair held in place with
elbow grease and brilliantine, shaking slightly, and anything but
almost an adult,
he’d turned toward his parents to thank them for the party and cassette recorder. They’d smiled, his mother had even shed a tear, and that was it.

Here they were in the very same room, on an overcast day, with trays of open sandwiches and drinks ad libitum, pretending that time hadn’t passed and that the occasion was less unpleasant.

Ronny had been taken to the crematorium, but with Ronny, dead or alive, there was no way of knowing when lightning would strike.

Carl looked around the group, wondering who Ronny had assigned to detonate the bomb. Who would get up in a minute, a piece of paper in their hand, to read out Ronny’s crafty accusations against the bereaved? When would the scoundrel be laughing from the great beyond, while one or more members of the family, Carl most likely, took a beating?

“He’s a very likable young man, your new partner,” said his mom later, nodding toward Assad, who was squeezed in between Aunt Adda and some friend who was just as old. “You said he’s called Assad. Isn’t that strange, given the Syria thing?”

Carl shook his head. “As far as I know, it’s a very common name in the Middle East, Mom. But yes, he’s all right; otherwise we wouldn’t have worked together for . . .” He counted on his fingers. ”. . . almost seven years now.”

Heads were nodding around them. Seven years was a long time, even in Vendsyssel, so he must be all right. Which was why no comments were made on his origin or skin color, even though the urge was there. That’s how people were in those parts. They could hardly help being folk of few words.

There was a clinking on one of the beer bottles, and one of Carl’s second cousins on his mother’s side got up. Definitely not one of Ronny’s acquaintances, so he was probably just there to get the numbers up.

“The family attorney has asked me to read a brief statement that was enclosed in Ronny’s will.”

Here it came. Of course it did.

He cut open the envelope.

“It’s very short, so Ronny doesn’t intend to intrude too much on this splendid event. And while we’re at it, let’s raise our glasses and thank the staff at Hedelund for the great food, and toast Ronny, who opened his wallet for the cause.”

Most of the guests laughed and toasted politely, but not Carl.

“Anyway. Ronny writes:

Dear friends and family. Allow me, here from my newly acquired Buddhist temple, to thank you for coming. I’ve always been a party animal, so raise your glasses to a quick toast.
”

There was a brief pause. A bit too brief for anyone to grant the wish.

“
As some of you might know, I hated my dad from the bottom of my heart. Every word he ever managed to say confirmed that his surroundings were better served if he descended straight to Hell.
”

People began shifting in their seats. Especially Carl’s dad, who was poking the tablecloth with his fork, eyes fixed on the reader.

“
Well, some might think that was a modest wish. But I congratulate myself for making it come true. Yes, I killed him, might as well just say it how it is in front of this closed company.
”

“Would you stop that filth!” shouted Carl’s dad, while the rest of the guests made their discomfort known by mumbling and complaining.

“Let’s hear it,” shouted someone else. It was Sammy, Ronny’s brother, half out of his chair. “I’ve a bloody right to know what this is about. He was my dad, too!”

“Well, I guess I’ll continue,” said the second nephew nervously, his eyes seeking Carl’s dad. “Is that okay, Gunnar? Now that Sammy’s asking.”

All eyes were on Carl’s dad. Farmer, tough as leather, and tired to the bone, yet still straight-backed and determined. Carl saw his big brother put his hand on their dad’s clenched fist, something Carl would have
never dared. But then again, the two men at the end of the table were birds of a feather, the mink breeder and the farmer, who never asked anyone for favors and rarely offered. What an alliance.

Carl braced himself. In a minute, the mood would turn a hundred and eighty degrees, directly against him. There was no need for intuition; he just
knew.

“I guess I’ll carry on, then,” said the second nephew. “Ronny continues:

I’ve described the circumstances in detail in my will, so I won’t tire you with them, but I would like to thank my cousin Carl from the bottom of my heart for . . .”

He knew it. Now all eyes were on him.

“. . .
making it possible for me to get rid of the old man. And for that same reason, I’d like to ask you all to raise your glasses and toast Carl, who I’m convinced Aunt Tove has made sure is present on a day like this. To Carl, who did me such a great favor in life.
”

Carl shook his head and spread his arms out wide. “I have no idea what the man is on about. Did he have a brain tumor or what?”

“Is there more?” shouted Sammy.

“Yes, here it is,” said the second nephew, and continued:

“
Carl was my best friend. He taught me karate, so I knew exactly how and where to paralyze my father with one strike, without anyone being able to tell. I let him tumble in the river and left him there, it’s as simple as that. Carl looked away, and I thank him for that. That’s why I leave him everything that’s left after my wife has taken her share.
”

For a moment the temperature in the room dropped to below zero. No one cleared their throat, and no one could be heard breathing. It was the
unpleasant calm before the storm. The silent storm moved at full speed around the room. In a minute he’d no longer be sitting in its eye; he’d be feeling all the forces of Hell pounding away at him. He had no intention of waiting for that.

“That’s a pile of rubbish and damned filth,” he shouted, letting his eyes wander over the shocked, weather-worn faces of aunts and uncles and people he didn’t even recognize. “I remember it as if it happened yesterday, of course I do. It was a really sad day for all of us. I saw nothing because I was walking over to two cute girls standing at the side of the road with their bicycles. I didn’t look away from anything, because I was never looking in that direction. I’m as shocked as you.”

“Wait a minute!” shouted the second nephew. “There’s more:

And if Carl claims anything different, he’s lying. We were in it together, which will also become clear from the memoirs I’ve sent to some of the big publishers.
”

Carl fell back in his chair. This was a clean knockout. How was it in any way possible to defend himself against the words of a dead man? And what were the consequences if he didn’t succeed? His family would cut him off; he could live with that. But to have it made public would ruin his career, and even worse: It would brand him forever. The man who joined the police force after having been an accomplice to murder. The investigator who was no better than the people he put behind bars.

“Come on,” said a voice behind him.

Carl looked up. It was Assad, hair neatly combed, black jacket.

He tugged gently at Carl’s chair. “Come on, we’re leaving, Carl. You shouldn’t put up with this.”

But as Carl pushed his chair back, Ronny’s callous brother came tearing along the wall, straight into his side. The impact of his oversize shoulders made Carl’s ribs rattle against each other. The punch from his fist, fingers tattooed, came from below, hitting Carl cleanly on the jaw. And while he fell backward groggily, he could feel one arm supporting
him from behind, and another swinging past his head to hit Sammy’s scorched forehead with a sound that would be hard to forget for some time.

He heard protests and shouts behind him, while Assad dragged him out along the backs of the chairs, and Sammy, half-unconscious, caused the table underneath him to collapse and the tableware to spread all over the floor.

It was total chaos within a few seconds. What the hell had he expected?

“What now, Carl?” asked Assad, driving up through Bredgade past the church where Carl had been confirmed and Ronny’s funeral service had just been held.

“I can’t just leave. I need to speak to my brother or parents about this. I can’t live with suspicion running wild.”

At the roundabout for the road to Aalborg, he pointed to the highway going north.

“Take the first left, just after we reach the state hospital on our right. We won’t drive all the way up to the farm. We’ll wait on the dirt road, and then I can decide what to do when the others arrive.”

He looked melancholically up toward the farm when Assad pulled over. This was where he’d grown up. This was where his sense of justice and struggle against wrong had begun. This was where he’d had a pitchfork stabbed halfway into his thigh, and where he’d taught his brother that you’re not necessarily weaker just because you’re younger. This was where he’d been given his first dog, and where his dad shot it.

This was where he’d had his first orgasm, in the hay bales with an old
Varieté
magazine on his knees.

Johanne Farm. The root of his existence.

They waited in silence for half an hour, before the mist from a four-wheel drive speeding through puddles rose in the rearview mirror.

“They’ll drive past me, you can be sure of that,” he said, stepping out of the car to stand in the middle of the road. He did hear Assad’s warning shout when he stretched one hand out toward his parents’ advancing
vehicle. He also heard the cursing from inside his parents’ car when it finally stopped a few centimeters from his shin.

What he chose to ignore was his mother’s pleading with him to go back home, as he flung open the door to the driver’s side. He simply
refused.

“I’ll tell you this in a few, unmistakable words. I had
nothing
to do with what Ronny suggested in his filthy letter. Far from it, I’m as appalled as you are, but first and foremost because I cared more about his dad than about anyone else in this world. So let me put it to you as it was and is, since it can’t be any other way: Birger Mørck gave me more drive and self-respect than you ever did, and I loved him for that. Your brother was funny and a real judge of character, Dad. You could’ve learned from that. Then maybe our relationship might not have been as awkward as it turned out.”

“You’ve always been like this,” said his father with contempt in his voice. “Always contrary, nobody should tell you what to do. Always wanting to provoke.”

Carl managed to hold back his next salvo. “And why’s that,” he said instead, so quietly it was almost inaudible. “Why, Dad? Isn’t it obvious? Because you paved the way to independence for me. But so did Uncle Birger, and I’m still cut up about his death. That’s my defense. And as long as you still have one grain of common sense in you, I think you should leave me in peace with that.”