The House That Jack Built (14 page)

He closed his eyes and tilted his head up toward the sky. He wished he could be swept away by the rain. Forget and be forgotten.

August 1944

“L
aura? We have
guests.” Father's voice rises up through the stairwell. She hides
Family Journal
under the pillow, straightens her hair, and hurries downstairs. Who could it be? The evening sun shines through the window of her parents' bedroom, warm and red. The soft call of a blackbird rises and falls through the gardens. It is almost time for her daily trip to the cellar.

On the landing, she looks down, stops suddenly. A pair of long black boots is waiting just inside the door, the brim of a black cap.

“Welcome. It's been too long.” Father and Arno shake hands.

What is he doing here?

“It is an honour to be received in your home!” Arno slides the cap under his arm and stands at attention.

“Come down here, my girl.” Father motions for her to come downstairs. The steps glide away beneath her. The black uniform, the boots float up toward her. She doesn't want to, and yet she must. Arno holds out his hand. She sees herself from the outside, watches as she places her hand in his and lets him help her down the last steps.

If he's come for Jack . . . She doesn't want to finish the thought. She takes the final step, looks down, and curtsies deeply. She can be nice. For Jack.

“I've made coffee.” Mother wrings her hands, then shows Arno into the living room. Father places a hand on Laura's shoulder, steers her after him. Arno smells of leather oil and horse. There are sweat stains on the collar of his uniform. His long neck is white as a sheet from the collar up to the short strands of hair peeking out at the edge of the black cap.

Now they are sitting on the sofa beside each other, Father in the chair opposite them. And outside in the garden, the evening is so beautiful that it hurts. Mother pours coffee and offers Arno the tray with the war macaroons, the ones she baked for Jack in the morning. It's so quiet, the few sounds grow. Arno champs the milled barley oats with lateral movements of his jaw; his boots squeak. Father breathes with a quiet whistling.

She breaks a little piece of the war macaroon on her plate. The slightly nauseating taste of the cake grows in her mouth; she hurries to swallow before she has to throw up. She hopes Jack is sleeping down there, that he doesn't hear Arno dragging his boots across the living room floor.

“The rumours say the resistance will attempt to sabotage the weapons factory in Ordrup.” Arno smiles. “But they will fail, as they failed with the labour strikes last month.”

Father and Arno stare at each other for a long time. She holds her breath.
Good God, it's over now
. In a moment, they'll be pounding on the door, then forcing their way inside with their dogs and guns. Then Father smiles. He shakes his head and wipes his mouth.

“Laura? You're not saying anything? You've been so distant. Are you keeping secrets?” Father's still smiling at her. But his gaze stings, burns into her. She can't catch her breath. All those things that can't be said. Everything they mustn't touch upon. The little fish is doing somersaults behind her navel; she can almost hear Jack groaning in the cellar below.

Arno takes off his cap, turns it in his hands, then places it on the sofa between them.

“Laura.” He grabs her with his cold, clammy hands. “I have work to do now, for Denmark. For you.”

Father leans back in the chair, satisfied. Everything has been turned upside down, out of joint. What are they up to?

“Come.” Arno gets up, attempting to pull her up with him. “It's a beautiful evening. Let's go outside.”

She doesn't want to go, her knees are shaking. But Arno has a firm hold and she is forced to her feet. Father and Arno. And Jack trapped in the cellar. She can't go on, it's too much. She breaks away, dashes up the stairs, and hides under the blanket in her small room in the attic while Arno and her parents call from downstairs.

When Arno has left, Father forbids her to take food down to Jack. He has to manage as best as he can, he says. With her head buried in her pillow, she cries herself to sleep.

Chapter 30

T
he slam of
the tailgate cut through the dogs' barking. They continued baying behind the windows of the truck, their eyes large in frustration at the abortive pursuit. Lars sat with a blanket around him on the tailgate of Forensics' Toyota HiAce. Someone had placed a warm cup of coffee in his hand. He patted his jacket pocket, took out the pack of cigarettes. It was drenched. He threw the pack down, looked around for someone to bum a smoke from.

Toke approached, handing him a pack without asking. Lars pulled out a Prince and leaned toward the lighter that Toke held out. Hans Tavsens Park was filled with flashing lights, colleagues, and curious onlookers. Somewhere out there, on the other side of the cordon, a couple of press photographers flashed their cameras. Lars inhaled, let the smoke filter out through his nose. It burned.

“The ambulance has just left. With Lene.” Toke put the cigarettes back in his pocket. “They say she's suffered a concussion. Lisa went with her.”

Lars nodded. He was far away. Why had the assailant whistled? And he had come through the park, not along the streets. That meant he'd been behind them. He had known that they were tailing Lene. That it was a trap.

He inhaled again, narrowing his eyes. A short distance away, Bint was bent over Lene's bicycle. A crime scene investigator Lars didn't know was examining the area for fingerprints.

“What does Bint say?”

Toke followed his gaze. “It doesn't look like there are any fingerprints. A little saliva but that could also belong to Lene — or someone else altogether. And they've found a bludgeon. That must be what he hit her with. Bint says it's sheer luck her skull wasn't crushed.”

Lars drew the last of the cigarette into his lungs, threw the hot butt on the ground, and stubbed it out with the tip of his shoe. He was about to collapse with fatigue.

“Can you take care of this?” He got up, pulled the blanket off. “I need to . . .” He patted Toke on the shoulder and left him.

Lars stepped over the barrier tape and started walking down Hans Tavsens Gade, past the journalists that had gathered there. One, two photographers fired off their flashes in his face. Someone asked him a question, but he kept walking.

On Jagtvej the scene had not changed in the half hour that had passed since he last stood there. Car lights, puddles, pizza joints, pubs. No pedestrians. He walked slowly toward Nørrebrogade, made note of the spot where the assailant had jumped over the wall separating the street from the cemetery. There were far too many streets the perp could have run down. Stairways, courtyards. Back into the cemetery, even. It was futile. He continued toward the roundabout at the intersection of Jagtvej and Nørrebrogade. He couldn't let go of the thought that the perp had known it was a trap all along. He pounded his fist into the wall in rage, clenched his teeth as the pain crippled his breathing. He stuffed the wounded hand deep into his jacket pocket and started walking faster. He should have stopped the operation; he shouldn't have allowed it to happen. He'd had a bad feeling right from the beginning.

Now the perp knew that they had discovered where he found his victims. Lene was in the hospital, and the investigation was left in ruins.

There was life on Nørrebrogade: buses were filled with people on their way home from a night out, and the morning bars had begun to open. He just wanted to go home. At
St. Stefan's Church, he hailed a cab. The driver shot him an angry glance in the rearview mirror when he climbed into the back in his wet clothes, then streaked along Nørrebrogade. He tore down the short stretch by Nørrebrohallen's sports facility, where cars were forbidden. Lars was too tired to protest.

He crawled up the stairs to his apartment, threw his wet clothes in the hallway. Then he turned on the shower and let the scalding water pour over him for several minutes. The headache had returned. He brushed his teeth in the shower, wrapped the towel around his waist, and went back into the hallway. A squeaking sound was coming from Maria's room. It was rhythmic, rough. The sound of two bodies . . .

He wanted to grab the handle, tear the door open. But just as he put his hand out, he heard her moaning. His hand dropped to his side. His hand opened and closed. then he turned, slunk off to his bedroom. Raising his head, he caught sight of his reflection in the dark window. A burnt-out, middle-aged man with loose, grey skin, bags under the eyes, and cuts on his nose and forehead. He leaned his forehead against the windowpane.

He got dressed, slipped into the living room. Grabbed
The Tempest
from the bookcase, and let it fall open to the familiar place. He found the secret pocket in the bright-red knitted bookmark and took out the small, square sachet. He poured the white powder onto the table and used his bank card to form a line. He rolled a two-hundred-kroner note into a tube, stuffed one end into his right nostril and snorted, pressing his index finger against his left. It burned inside, near the bridge of his nose and in his throat. Steel and ice. He had to sneeze but managed to hold back, licked his index finger, dragged it across the remains of the fine powder, and rubbed it into his gums. More steel. Blood.

He returned the book to the bookcase, folded the paper and the banknote, put both into his pocket and disappeared down the stairs.

Chapter 31

A
beiuwa pulled the
leopard-print fur tight around her shoulders, tugged at her tiny, pink, plastic skirt, and peered up and down Vesterbrogade. It was so cold in this country, even though they said it was summer. She was tired. Her whole body ached. She took a final drag on her last cigarette and threw the stub into the gutter. On her corner of the public square of Vesterbros Torv, car lights darted across her slender body and neon signs reflected on chrome trim and shiny hoods. The pedestrians she tried to forget. Most avoided her; some stared. People here were surly, angry. Not like at home in Porto-Novo. She longed to return, missed her mom and her siblings, her father who worked on the other side of the border.

One more customer, then she would call it a night. She hoped they wouldn't beat her when she returned with the money. But why wouldn't they? They always did.

A car drove through the puddle by the sidewalk. The murky water splashed the curb and Abeiuwa sidestepped the spray. She bent down, squeezed her arms against her breasts to push them up and out. It was a trick she had learned on her first night in Torino.

The window rolled down, she smiled into the darkness.

“Fucky fucky?” Abeiuwa winked, puckered her pink lips.

“How much?” The voice was rusty. An old man's. It didn't bother her. As long as he didn't smell.

She smiled again, this time a little broader. “Two hundred, no condom.”

“Too much, black whore.” The car accelerated, skidding 0n the pavement. Again a hard jet of water shot up from the puddle, this time hitting her fur.

“Asshole.” She gave him the finger and looked down at the damage. She wouldn't be able to wash until she got home. A little methylated spirit would get the worst off. But for the rest of the evening she would look terrible.

Over on the other side of the street, a young couple was staring at her. People had so many opportunities here; so few needed to work the streets.

She turned around, began to walk toward Justine who worked a corner further down Vesterbrogade. Maybe she had a smoke?

Justine had both North State cigarettes and gum, and five minutes later Abeiuwa was back on her corner. She was already feeling better, chewing gum and blowing smoke rings into the night air. She swallowed the pill Justine had given her, dextroamphetamine. Now she could manage a couple more hours.

An old vintage car pulled up to the curb. She repeated her routine — she bent down, squeezed her breasts together, puckered her lips, and whispered hoarsely through the window.

“Fucky Fucky?”

The man in the car shook his head. “Sucky sucky?” The voice was neither young nor old.

Abeiuwa smiled, opened her mouth, let the tongue slip across her lips. “Two hundred, no condom.”

The door opened and she got into the passenger seat.

“Go to Fisketorvet. Behind.”

The customer was an older man. It was dark inside the car and she couldn't see more than his shadow. Glasses, sharp nose, high forehead. Heavy breathing. The front windshield was messy. She placed her hand on his thigh, let her fingers slide upwards. He was breathing heavier now. They crossed Istedgade, turned down Halmtorvet, and out along Skelbækgade. The festival of lights from the Fisketorvet Shopping Centre twinkled at them from the other side of the train tracks. He drove down Kalvebod Brygge, into the parking lot and down among the blacked-out properties behind. He'd been here before.

They parked in the shadow of an apartment block where the lights from Fisketorvet didn't reach them. He turned off the headlights. Her fingers found his zipper. There was a sudden smell in the car. Piss? No, something else. Something chemical? She smiled at him so he could see the whites of her eyes and her teeth in the dark.

Then she filled her mouth with saliva, bent over the gearshift, and took the limp, wrinkled dick in her mouth.

He mumbled something; it sounded more or less like what they all mumbled. She assumed it was Danish; it sounded stupid at any rate. But she froze when he started stroking her hair as he stiffened in her mouth. If only he would stop. The ones who touched her tended to force her head all the way down, until she was about to choke. She was used to it now, she could manage. But not this. This terrified her. She sucked her cheeks in, moved her head more quickly, up and down. Her tongue ran in circular motions around the head of his penis. Come on. Get it over with.

His hand stopped stroking her hair. He was doing something by the windshield. Now the hand returned; a finger caressed her right eyelid. She shivered.

A wet and pungent cloth was pressed over her nose and she was pulled up by her hair. Then the cloth was forced over her mouth and the world dissolved.

Abeiuwa came to, dizzy, dazed. She had no idea where she was or how much time had passed. She sat on a concrete floor that was rough against the skin of her bare buttocks. Her hands were bound behind her back. Carefully she opened first her right eye, then her left.

Blurry shapes, shadows in the twilight. A tiny bit of light filtered in through an opening high above. The shapes accumulated into shadows, bodies. One on a chair, the other on a sofa sitting in front of a dark television. They were completely still. One body's head was slumped against its chest; the other's back was against the sofa, its head bent backwards.

“Help,” she whispered. There was no reaction.

“Help me,” she tried again, this time louder. Neither of them moved.

For a long time, she watched their eyelids. They didn't move: no twitching, no trembling arms. She tried lifting her head but was far too weak. The small movement made her nauseous and she threw up. Her vomit splashed down on the concrete floor between her legs and fear took hold of her.

“
Nana Buluku
,” she whispered. “
Mawu
et
Lisa
.” The silent figures didn't react. “
Aide moi
,” she continued, this time a little louder. Still no reaction, no answer.

“
Aide moi
,” she shouted. Her voice echoed between the concrete walls.

The sound of footsteps came from above. Then came the cutting sound of metal on metal. A bright light forced her to shut her eyes. Something creaked. Someone was on the way down — a staircase? Heavy, slowly. She opened her eyes again, blinking until she had adjusted to the light. And then she screamed.

The two shapes were naked white women. Their skin had an oddly yellowish hue, like the beeswax from her uncle's village. But it was not the unnatural hue, nor the fact that they didn't move that made her scream.

It was their eyes. They stared blankly forward, cold and stiff, glasslike. Like doll's eyes. Each had one green and one greyish-blue. Dead faces. Like the Vodun her grandmother had told her about.

“
Nana Buluku
,” she whispered again. “
Mawu et Lisa
.
Aide moi, aide moi
.” Again and again, she rocked back and forth.

High above, a figure emerged through a small door at the top of a steep staircase. A thickset, older man walked down the stairs, one step at a time, humming while keeping an eye on her. She screamed again, but the man continued his descent, smiled as he passed her, and walked over to a bookcase. He turned his back to her. His arms were moving; he took something from a shelf, operated a device. Music spilled out from hidden speakers. Strange, slow, creepy music. A woman sang words she didn't recognize. Then the shape stepped toward her carrying something, shutting out the light.

“Sucky sucky?” she whispered.

The man didn't answer; he just kept smiling. The sharp chemical stench surrounded her again; she couldn't stop him from forcing what he had in his hands against her mouth. It burned her eyes. The room, the man, and the two Vodun disappeared into the darkness.

* * *

The crude wooden bookcases, the ceiling high above her — everything was swimming as she came to. She remembered the image of the two naked female figures. Abeiuwa opened her mouth to scream but no sound came out. She couldn't speak. Something had been stuffed into her mouth. She tried spitting it out, but the only result was something tightening around her neck.

She was lying on a table, freezing and naked. A chemical stench penetrated the air. Something was stuck to her right eye. Above her, she could hear him mumbling, humming cheerfully to himself. The music was very loud now. She tried opening her eyes, but could only see out of the left one. Something was pressing down on her right eye.

She couldn't move her arms or legs. Her right eye started twitching, the pain radiating all the way from her head down to her feet. The soft tissue was stretched like one of the fish eyes she had played with as a child. The pain was a fire burning in her head. She tensed her body, arched her back. The man standing over her continued humming to the strange music but didn't speak. And then she heard a soft pop. The pain momentarily vanished, only to return worse than ever. She managed to slip her left hand free; she fumbled over a rough surface, hit something. It fell, clattered. Abeiuwa's hand closed around a jar and she struck, upwards and to the right with all her strength. The soft humming stopped and a large body tumbled to the floor.

Driven half-mad by pain, she reached over, fumbled with the buckle around her right hand, then her feet. Seconds later she was free. She tried to get up, then wailed as her right eye twitched. A low table had been overturned in his fall, instruments and jars with liquids were scattered across the floor. Behind him, out of the corner of her left eye, she caught sight of the foot of the staircase. She hurried across his body to the staircase. As she raised her foot toward the first step, a hand grabbed her ankle. She kicked backwards, struck. The grip relaxed and she tumbled up the steep staircase. Now heavy steps creaked on the staircase behind her. She pushed through a small door, slammed it shut in her pursuer's face and slumped onto the floor. Bewildered she tried to get her bearings. Another dark room, another staircase. She scrambled up the stairs on all fours, heard the door squeak behind her. He was clawing his way across the floor below her. His hand grazed her heel before she managed to pull it away. Wailing, she dragged herself up the stairs, through the door. A small bureau stood on the other side. She tore at it half blindly, managed to move it to the doorway, and pushed it down the staircase. A curse from down below, the sound of something heavy falling, the staircase creaking. She tottered down a corridor. A door.
Out?
She entered a room with windows on all sides, fumbled along the walls and the window frames. Gasping and half-blind she felt for the latch on one of the windows, listening for steps all the while. The window flew open and she plunged headfirst out into the cold night, somersaulted down a soft hill, hit her back against a metal object, and pulled herself up.

A blaze of white lights burned her eyes. The right one still hung from the socket and dangled on her cheek. She turned, looked back toward the house and the pale outline of a Vodun in the open window.

She let out a long scream and ran into the nearest thicket, away.