The Purity of Vengeance (47 page)

“Contemplation rooms?”

“Yes, punishment cells. Just a room with a bed, and nothing else.”

“But this isn’t supposed to be a holiday, is it?”

She was desolated. He didn’t understand. “The only way we can get away from here is if they cut us open and sterilize us.”

The man nodded. “Yes, I’m aware of that. It’s so that you won’t put children into the world that you can’t look after. Don’t you find that humane?”

“Humane?”

“Yes, kind.”

“Why shouldn’t I be allowed to have children? Are my children worth less than others?”

He looked past Nete at the three wardens who had followed on behind, doing their utmost to listen in on what was said.

“Which of these women beats you?” he asked.

Nete turned. “They all do, but the smallest one’s the worst. She hits us on the neck and it hurts for days.”

“I see. Look, the matron’s coming now, so one more question, that’s all. Tell me something you’re not allowed to do here.”

“The staff keep the herbs and spices for themselves. All we’re allowed is salt and pepper and vinegar.”

He smiled. “Well, if that’s the worst you can think of, I’d say you were doing quite nicely. The food’s decent enough. I’ve tasted it myself.”

“The worst thing is that they hate us. They don’t care about us and they treat us like we’re all the same. They never listen to anything we say.”

He laughed. “You should meet my editor. I think you’ve just described him.”

She heard the wardens disperse behind her, noticing just before the matron gripped her arm and marched her off that the man in the boat had lit a cigarillo and was in the process of trimming his nets.

She had not been heard, at least not properly. Her prayers had been in vain. She was no more worthy of attention than a tuft of grass.

 • • • 

To begin with, she lay in the punishment cell and wept. And when it didn’t help, she screamed at the top of her lungs for them to let her out, kicking and clawing at the door. Eventually, when they tired of her commotion, two of them came in, twisted her arms into the straitjacket, and strapped her to the bed.

For hours she was distraught, sobbing uncontrollably and imploring the grimy wall to fall away and reveal her pathway to freedom. Eventually, the door opened and the matron stepped inside, followed by her zealous little weasel of an assistant.

“I have spoken to Mr. William from
Photo Report
, and you can thank your lucky stars he won’t be publishing any of the cock-and-bull stories you’ve been telling him.”

“I didn’t tell him stories and I never tell a lie.”

Nete failed to see the hand that swiped through the air and struck her on the mouth, but she was prepared when Weasel drew back her arm a second time.

“All right, Miss Jespersen, I think that will suffice,” said the matron.

She looked down at Nete again. Of all the staff, the matron may have had the kindest eyes, but right now they were as cold as ice.

“I’ve telephoned Dr. Wad and informed him that you continue to put forward these outrageous and wholly insubstantial lies about him. I was interested to hear what he thought we should do about you. His opinion was that in view of your intransigent and mendacious character, no period of confinement would ever suffice as punishment.” She patted Nete on the head. “The decision is not his to make, but nonetheless I have decided to follow his advice. You can remain here for a week to begin with, and we shall see how you get on. If you behave and refrain from making such a racket we shall remove the straitjacket tomorrow. What do you say, Nete? Do we have an agreement?”

Nete twisted slightly under the belt.

A silent protest.

 • • • 

Where on earth’s he got to? Nete wondered. Had Curt Wad really decided not to come? Was he really so arrogant that not even the prospect of ten million kroner could lure him from his lair? It was a situation she hadn’t anticipated.

She shook her head despairingly. This was the last thing she needed. Though she closed her eyes, the body of the scrawny lawyer still stared pitifully at her, but Nørvig had been little more than Wad’s errand boy, and if she wouldn’t spare him, she certainly would not be kind to Curt Wad.

She bit her lip and looked over at the grandfather clock, its pendulum swinging relentlessly.

Would she be able to go to Mallorca with her job incomplete? She wouldn’t, she was certain of it. Curt Wad was the most important of her intended victims.

“Come on, come on, come on, you swine!” she spat in frustration, gathering up her knitting and frenziedly picking up stitches. And with every click of the needles her gaze out of the open windows and down the path along the lake grew more intense.

Was that him? That tall figure by the bunker? Or what about the man behind him? But that wasn’t him either.

What to do now?

And then the doorbell chimed. Not the entry phone downstairs, but her own front door. She gave a start and felt a chill go through her body.

She dropped her knitting and glanced around, satisfying herself that everything was ready.

There was the extract. The cozy was on the teapot. The documents bearing the fabricated letterhead of her fictitious lawyer were laid out on the lace cloth on the coffee table in front of the sofa. She sniffed the air. As far as she could tell, the stench of Nørvig’s passing was gone.

Then she went to the door, wishing she’d had one of those little spyholes fitted. She took a deep breath and lifted her head, ready to look Curt Wad in the eye when she opened up.

“I discovered I did have some coffee all along. It took a while with these foolish eyes of mine,” said a voice from about half a meter lower down than she’d been anticipating.

Her neighbor held out a pack of Irma’s own brand and craned her neck to peer down the hallway of Nete’s apartment. What could be more exciting than a peek into the unknown world of one’s neighbor?

But Nete refrained to invite her in.

“Thank you so much,” she said, accepting the coffee. “The instant was all right, but this is better, of course. Can I pay you for it right away? I’m afraid I shan’t be able to return in kind for the next couple of weeks. I’m going away, you see.”

The woman nodded and Nete hurried into the living room and took her purse from her bag. It was 4:35 now and Curt Wad still hadn’t arrived. It was imperative the neighbor be gone if the entry phone rang. Imagine if a missing persons bulletin went out to the newspapers or television. Women like Nete’s neighbor sat staring at the box all day long. Nete could even hear it droning when the rush-hour traffic died away.

“You’ve done the place out nicely,” said the woman behind her.

Nete swiveled round like a top. The woman had followed her in and was now standing in the living room, looking about inquisitively. The open windows and the documents on the coffee table were an immediate source of interest.

“Yes, I like it,” Nete replied, handing her a ten-kroner note. “Thanks for helping me out, it was very kind of you.”

“What have you done with your visitor?” she asked.

“Oh, some errands to do in town.”

“Perhaps we could have a cup while you wait?” the woman suggested.

Nete shook her head. “I’m afraid I can’t. Another time, certainly. I have some paperwork I need to sort out.”

She gave the woman a friendly nod, noting her look of disappointment before taking her by the arm and leading her back out to the landing.

“Thank you for being so kind,” she said by way of conclusion, and closed the door behind her.

She stood for thirty seconds or more, waiting until satisfied her neighbor had returned to her own apartment.

What would she do if the woman turned up again while Curt Wad or Gitte Charles was there? Would she have to do away with her, too?

Nete shook her head at the thought of police milling about the place and all the questions they would ask. It was too close to home.

Please God, don’t let her come back, she prayed silently.

Not that she believed He would come to her aid. Her prayers would never be enough.

She knew that from experience.

 • • • 

The fourth day of rye bread and water was a trial. Nete’s world had diminished, with no room anymore for tears or the prayers she had offered to the Lord day and night. Night, especially.

Instead, she screamed for air and liberty. And most of all for her mother.

“Come and help me, Mother! Hug me, and stay with me forever,” she wailed incessantly. Oh, if only she could sit with her mother now in the little garden of their smallholding, shelling peas. If only she could . . .

She stopped when they began to pound their fists against the door, shouting at her to shut up. It wasn’t the wardens, but some of the girls from down the corridor. And the bell in the hall rang because they had left their rooms, and screams and shouts and general tumult made way for the matron’s stern warnings and a rattling of the bolt in the door of her cell.

Seconds later, Nete was forced backward through the cramped space. She threw back her head and howled as the long needle was jabbed into her flesh, and then the room began to spin before her eyes.

When she came round with her arms fastened by a strap, she no longer had the strength to cry out.

And thus she lay all through the day without uttering a word. When they tried to feed her she turned away and thought of her sanctuary outside, beyond the hillock with the plum trees, sparkling beams of sunlight filtering through the leaves. And she thought back on the impression left in the hay by her lovemaking wth Tage in the barn.

Her thoughts were concentrated and intense, for if she wasn’t careful Curt Wad’s smug face would appear in her mind’s eye instead. It was the last thing she wanted.

She did not wish to think about Curt Wad. That detestable man had destroyed her life and she would never leave the island as the person she had once been. She knew that now. Life had passed her by, and every time her lungs filled with air she wished her breathing would stop.

Her last meal was already digested, she told herself. Curt Wad, the Devil, and all his dark deeds made it impossible for her to imagine a life after this.

When several days went by without her eating and there was nothing left inside her bowels to be emptied, they called for a doctor from the mainland.

He was meant to be her savior, calling himself her friend in need, but his aid was a hypodermic in her arm and a trip across the strait to the hospital in Korsør.

Here they kept her under observation and turned away when she began to plead with them to show her the mercy of believing that she was a girl like any other, stricken by terrible misfortune.

Only once did anyone come who might have listened to her, but Nete was so sedated she dozed nearly all day long.

The person was a man in his mid-twenties visiting a little girl with hearing difficulties who had been brought in that morning and who now lay behind curtains in a bed opposite Nete’s. Nete overheard that she was suffering from leukemia, and though she was unaware of what it was, she realized the girl was dying. In her hazy state she saw it in the eyes of the parents when they came away. Nete was in so many ways envious of that little girl. Liberated from the miseries of the world and yet surrounded by people who loved her. How benevolent a fate. And this man, who came to ease her final time by reading for her, or allowing her to read for him.

And Nete closed her eyes and listened to how his soothing voice helped the child shape the syllables, words, and sentences until they made sense, and slowly enough for Nete in her languid state to follow along.

He smiled warmly to her as he passed by her bed.

It was a smile that gripped her heart and prompted her to swallow just a tiny morsel of food that same evening.

Two days later the child was dead and Nete was on her way back to Sprogø, more silent and introverted than before. Even Rita left her alone in the night, but she had trouble of her own to contend with now. They all had.

For the same boat that took Nete back to the island brought with it Gitte Charles.

37

November 2010

As Curt lay on
his side in the double bed, gazing at his beloved’s almost transparent eyelids, which had not opened on life for three days and nights, he had all the time in the world to curse the events of the past couple of days.

Everything was falling apart. His security apparatus, set up specifically to remove all obstacles, had made fatal errors, and people who once were silent were now sounding off.

It was as though, amid all the recent triumphs of his Purity Party, disasters were now queuing up to happen, snapping at him and his life’s foundation like rabid dogs.

Why had they been unable to stop those two policemen? It was imperative it be done. Mikael, Lønberg, and Caspersen had all promised to do their utmost, and yet they had failed.

Beate’s face twitched almost imperceptibly yet sufficiently to make him jump.

He looked at his bony hand as he stroked her cheek and felt strangely at odds with himself. It seemed almost to merge with her skin, so slight was the difference between her aging and his. But in a few hours she would be dead and he still alive. That was the issue he had to address, if indeed he wanted to live at all. And at this moment he did not. But he had to. There were jobs to be taken care of, but when they were done he would find a headstone, and the mason would carve not one name, but two.

A sudden, urgent noise came from his bedside table. It was his iPhone, not the secure connection he mostly used now. He turned over, picked it up, and opened the text message that had come in.

It was a link from Herbert Sønderskov.

So he had done as he was told, Curt thought to himself, pleased by the prospect. One person less to go shooting their mouth off.

He tapped the link and waited a moment until an image appeared. When it did, he sat up abruptly in a state of alarm.

The photo showed a beaming Herbert and Mie, waving to him amid lush, luxuriant surroundings. Above the image was a brief caption:
You’ll never find us.