My Dirty Little Book of Stolen Time

by Liz Jensen

  Clues

  Fru Krak’s anxiety … the disappearance of Professor Krak – & others ???

  Séances? – contact with the dead

  ‘Dark services’ mentioned by Herr Bang, with reference to

  Oblivion & the Great Beyond

  Sightings of the ghost of Professor Krak

  Missing clocks

  Sewer rats

  Suspected wizardry

  Gudrun Olsen’s mutilation, caused by something not of human flesh,& involving her own ‘excruciating guilt’

  A machine, made of bizarre components amassed in a secretive manner

  But the components did nothing but float before me, defying logic & coherence, with the word ‘Machine’ dancing tantalizingly as though jeering at my muddle & stupidity. And yet, I thought, if I could only clap eyes on this thing – the one object here which seemed to have more solid possibilities than the others – then might all the rest be explained? I had by now almost finished my cartography of the house’s many rooms & corridors, its unlikely staircases & hidden accesses, & was ready to pinpoint the two basement chambers that Gudrun Olsen had referred to as the workshop & the Oblivion Room, though the problem of the keys, & how to get hold of them, remained, for a rigorous search of the Krakster’s cupboards, closets, wardrobes & chests of drawers revealed no set of duplicates which I might steal. I was just pondering this conundrum, & felt myself to be on the brink of an ingenious solution regarding trained mice with miniature lassos (may I remind you that I was very tired), when Herr Axelsen’s snoring changed & he rolled over, reaching out an arm for me, so quickly I shed my robe, blew out the candle, & slid in next to my client so we lay naked like spoons, & felt his half-sleeping member instantly twitch & then resolutely harden in the old familiar manner of men & their urges, & I gently guided him into me, where after a few hearty, somnambulant thrusts he spilled himself with a small grunt without ever waking up, which touched me deeply, for I have always loved the simple connection that exists between a man & his needs, so uncomplicated compared to a woman’s tangled & contradictory skein of feelings & hopes. How I do enjoy the company of men, I mused as I sank back sleepily with my buttocks pressing against the soft pregnancy of Herr Axelsen’s beer paunch, & how grateful I am for the way their physical side takes control, regularly over-ruling the well-intentioned edicts of their dear muddled brains! Were it not for that, how on earth would I make a living?

  The next morn, having dispatched Herr Axelsen home a happier man, I roused Fru Schleswig & accompanied her to Number Nine Rosenvængets Allé, where Fru Krak was all a-yelling & a-bustle, for she could not locate her silk-and-pigskin umbrella. On the pretext of searching for it, I did a quick tour of the house to assure myself that the map I had fashioned was accurate. There were still some grey areas, but I deemed that the mysterious set of underground rooms were likely to be found in one of the three basements in the house – two of which I judged to be located beneath the main part of the building, & the third in the bowels of the small annexe that gave on to the garden. (NB And now before you do anything else, take a moment of your precious time to scrutinize my map carefully, my darling one, &, in the process of doing so, admire its intricacy, for it took me hours to draw!)

  I found the missing umbrella among all the others stacked in the unlikely location of the elephant’s-foot umbrella-stand, then waited impatiently for Fru Krak (dressed today in dull purple, & adorned with violet gems) to leave the house. I had a hunch that she would be headed for the botanical gardens later on, as I had read her horoscope in the Fine Ladythe previous day: As an astute Aquarian Woman, you will need to plan your finances in view of the material changes on the horizon. Remember that men do not respect a woman who is not a Lady, so those of a lesser rank pose you no threat, & indeed can work to your advantage, so you can afford to pity them. Celebrate this knowledge by wearing this week’s lucky gemstone: amethyst. With Jupiter in the ascendant, now is the perfect time to commune with all that is exotic in Nature, but continue to beware of all that lurks BELOW GROUND.

  Number Nine Rosenvængets Allé — interior plan

  As soon as the billowing purple cloud that was Fru Krak had swept out, smelling of violets & announcing that being of a lesser rank I posed no threat to her, & indeed she pitied me (to which I curtsied prettily), I took a lamp – for the evenings were drawing in as early as three in the afternoon, & I knew the lower part of the house to be entirely unlit unless by canle – & descended a set of stairs leading to the first basement. I had not expected to see much, & indeed was planning to do little more with this expedition than to reconnoitre, but to my great surprise, when I reached the door of the only room on this level, I found there was no lock at all, but instead a stout bolt which one operated from the outside. Emboldened by this I pulled it to, opened the door &, in the semi-gloom that filled the room like a murky cloud, almost tripped on what turned out to be a ragnarok of rubbish: metal rods, discarded workman’s tools, pieces of smashed furniture of all constructions, styles & dimensions, & a huge & bewildering array of cogs, pendulums & other assorted innards from a thousand varied clocks. Could this be the graveyard of all the timepieces that Herr Bang remembered seeing in this mansion? But if so, why had they been destroyed? In any case, having made the swift assessment that this was merely a form of junk-room, a receptacle for all the out-throwings of a slovenly person who could not be bothered to dispose of their curious detritus in the normal manner, I swiftly moved back upstairs, crossed to the other wing of the house, & made my way down the staircase that led to the second basement. But no sooner had I reached the bottom of its cobwebby spiral of steps than I fancied – ah my! – that I heard a thud emanating from behind the closed door that lay at the end of the corridor before me! Immediately on my guard, I stopped in my tracks & stood motionless for a moment, as my spirit split in two, one half of it fearful, the other foolhardy. After some anxious dithering & hesitation, foolhardiness won, but it was with no little trepidation & a quaking heart that I tiptoed on towards the door.

  Upon arriving at which, there came another sudden & alarming noise – this time a scuttling scrape that I knew well, & my guts contracted. I cannot abide rats, for the thought of their beady squalid eyes, oily fur & scratchy claws conjures up hideous memories of the orphanage, where they hunted in packs, & once devoured a helpless baby (I am sure of it) whose dying screams joined Baba Yaga Bonylegs as the stuff of my childhood nightmares.

  But still, foolhardiness prevailed, & I urged calmness on myself, for I had not come all this way to be scared off by a rodent or two, whatever memories they evoked. Anticipating an encounter with the ghost of Professor Krak, which might turn to violence, I had taken the precaution of filling my pocket with ground pepper, so if worst came to worst, I could fling a handful of it at my attacker. I was quite sure that the door would be firmly locked, & perhaps bolted too, but I nevertheless resolved to test it, & had just grasped the knob to turn it when – OUCH! – for Fanden!

  A sharp & painful twist forced my wrist in the other direction. I screamed, & dropped the lamp which fell to the floor, where the stuttering wick illuminated for the first time what I had missed before, hanging as it did so high up on the door.

  A pair of raw, fresh pig’s trotters, tied together by a piece of rough string.

  I screamed again, for it seemed I had stumbled upon evidence of a gruesome porcine ritual! Upon which ghastly realization I turned & ran forthwith, taking the stairs two at a time, stumbling over my skirts & petticoats, & rushing headlong towards the kitchen, the pepper from my pocket flying everywhere. As I turned a corner into a further corridor, I hurtled slap-bang into Fru Schleswig, who was heaving a pail of water full of soap-suds, which promptly emptied all over me, just as the doorbell rang in the most untimely manner. Still frantic, I skidded soapily to the door & flung it open – not to allow any visitors to enter so much as to escape myself only to be greeted by the looming figure of Pastor Dahlberg whose popping eyes instantly settled themselves
upon my breasts – which, being clad only in the thin film of my cotton bodice, left nothing, in their drenched state, to the imagination. I cursed myself for not going to the back door instead, but there was no time to shake him off, for he had me by the arm & was pinching tight.

  ‘Not so fast, my dear,’ he breathed, frog-marching me back inside the hall. ‘You seem distressed. You must tell Papa all about it’ {Papa!I nearly vomited.) My heart was still banging from the shock of what I had heard from that basement room, & my breath came out in panting gasps, which (O God!) seemed to arouse ‘Papa’ even further, for his eyes lit up as he proceeded to enquire whether I had been a ‘naughty little girl’, & whether I needed to be ‘severely punished’ for my sins. Fru Schleswig stepped aside as we passed, & shot me a look, but I made a gesture for her to button her lip or else, for despite the shock I had suffered, & my anxiety to get out of that place, I smelled quick money on the horizon & Christmas was coming.

  ‘I have a room upstairs I would like to show you, which is to be my personal study in which the Lord & I can conduct our intimate conversations,’ Pastor Dahlberg said, marching me up the steps with him & fair shoving me inside, where he did not waste his time undoing his breeches, & I did not waste mine – my temper & nerves being somewhat frayed by the alarming experience I had undergone only moments before – demanding with blunt insistence a fee often kroner & making it clear to him that I would accept no less in future, & if he wanted cheaper there was always the street. So ten kroner it was, & when I had pocketed it, he made sure I earned every ore by pressing me up against the leather-topped desk & leering at me with his clacking teeth & his chomping lips all a-guzzle, & calling me a dirty little temptress & then getting on his knees & burying his nose in my underskirts like a slobbering dog. I knew that if I did not hasten him on, he would take his horrible middle-aged time, so while he muttered & whispered & groaned on about naughty, dirty, sexy whoreunder his breath, I racked my brains for inspiration. Lord, much as my work had its delightful moments, there were times when I would have given anything to be a humble librarian in a quiet provincial town! However whilst he was huffing & puffing I finally hit upon the notion (him being a religious man) of suggesting that I was a nun being ravaged at the altar, which (praise be!) did the trick – so speedily indeed (a mere three or four more feeble pumps sufficed) that one might be forgiven for suspecting that great friend & conversational companion of the Pastor’s, the Almighty himself, had intervened on my behalf.

  That night, Fru Schleswig & I polished off the bottle of schnapps & I’made my way to bed, drifting into slumber with pleasant fantasies of the blackmail of Pastor Dahlberg on my mind, & waking the next morn feeling optimistic, refreshed & determined to confront the ghost in the basement that very day, for there was no time like the present. And goodness gracious, why not blackmail a ghost, too, while one was at it?

  Yet despite my bold plans, I will confess to you, O beloved one (& please do not think less of me for my cowardice), that as well as the curiosity I harboured about Professor Krak’s basement secret, there was fear in me too, & it took all the courage I could muster to go near the place the next morning. And when I did, with the mumbling & grumbling Fru Schleswig at my side, complaining that I was making it all up & I’d ‘red too mennie sillie bookes as a chylde’, quite a sight met my eyes. A new bolt & huge new shiny padlock had been added to the outside of the door. Upon which, beneath the now reeking pig’s trotters, hung a makeshift wooden sign covered in huge writing.

  I felt the blood drain from my face & descend into my feet, which then seemed to grow a powerful & elaborate system of roots, so that I could not budge from the spot.

  ‘You mus tel the mistris,’ said Fru Schleswig eventually, for she is a slow reader & it took a full minute for her fright to catch up with mine. ‘You duz not tell her then it iz me wot will. Therez sumthin not rite in this howse. There be sum kynde of eevil spirrit livin here an I duz not like it wun bit’

  And for once I agreed with her.

  Still rooted there, I stared in horror at the words that had been scrawled – apparently in blood that was still fresh enough to be a glistening, scarlet red – upon the gruesome sign.

  Come not near, young madam, if you value your life.

  Now how would you react, O my dear one, if you were to be informed by a reliable & honest source that your dead husband was living in the basement of your home, & was making his presence alarmingly felt just weeks before your nuptials to his successor? Would you not fly into some kind of panic?

  I certainly imagined that the highly-strung Fru Krak would have difficulty containing herself in the face of such news, when I conveyed it to her later that morning. I pictured her reaching for her smelling-salts, & taking to her bed, & summoning the Pastor, whom she would beg to enact an exorcism or other such hocus-pocus to calm her fluttering feminine fears, & perhaps revisiting Herr Bang at the apothecary’s for some more nerve-potions, & generally making the lives of Fru Schleswig & myself as hellish as she could, with her demands & counter-demands, her fripperies, calamities & whims.

  But I was quite wrong.

  For instead of showing alarm, it was an expression of the foulest rage that washed over her pallid face as I told her what had happened.

  ‘And so I came straight to you, ma’am,’ I finished. ‘Knowing that you would want to be aware of such a terrifying thing as an unknown inhabitant in your home.’

  She looked at me in steely silence for a moment with her dead, lopsided eyes, as though measuring how much energy she could summon to answer me, & it struck me as she did so, that her face seemed even whiter than usual, indeed so bloodless that it could be mistaken for a paper mask. ‘But this is no concern of mine!’ she finally burst out, in a tone whose harshness grated on my ears. ‘And I will thank you not to mention such absurdities again! What is more, I shall be extremely angry if you bother the Pastor with them. I am a lady, & I assure you I would never dream of descending belowstairs! Good grief, you worthless little tart! If there are rats in the basement, get rid of them. That is your job!’

  ‘Rats who have learned the alphabet so well that they can write notices in blood, ma’am?’ I queried, but she merely huffed, & accused me of intolerable insolence & the like. But I was not fooled, for her voice had betrayed her, & just afterwards when my back was turned & she thought I was not watching, I spotted her in the mirror reaching in a little leather bag around her waist & swallowing three pills in a single hasty gulp.

  Keen to share the excitement of my discoveries, I made the excuse of needing to buy more soda crystals, & scurried out posthaste to the florist’s shop to recount the story to Else, who by a lucky chance was playing cards with none other than Gudrun Olsen. For a moment I watched the two women seated upright as alert as two bright birds, their fingers flying like the Devil among the rose-buds & the snippings of flower-stalks on the table before them, & then, when their game seemed to come if not to a halt then to a pause of some kind, where the cards required reshuffling, I greeted them & recounted the story of the noises in the basement room, & the warning notice, & Fru Krak’s unusual reaction to being told of them.

  ‘That means he’s in there!’ said Gudrun, slamming the cards down on the table. ‘And that he never died! He is in there, alive, & she knows it! They must have a pact’

  ‘But how does he come out?’ asked Else.

  We had to wait while Gudrun shuffled & applied her mind to the question. Her scar looked paler today, as though coated in powder. ‘There must be a secret passage,’ she said after a moment. ‘That house is a warren of traps & sewers & strange connections. It is like a rotted brain. He must get out at night’ She looked excited at the thought, & then I remembered in the laundry she said she had been much attached to her employer, for all his oddity.

  ‘That’s when he’s been sighted,’ said Else. ‘Always after dark, & wrapped in a cloak with half his face hidden by a scarf or a balaclava.’

  ‘A balaclava?’ I asked sharply
, remembering the incident at Herr Bang’s. Was I being spied upon? And if so, was the creature stalking me a chimera, or living flesh?

  ‘If he really is alive,’ I pondered, ‘then his wife cannot marry the Pastor. Perhaps that is why she would rather not know he is down there!’ And my mind galloped further, for here was even more knowledge I could use to my financial gain. What might it be worth to Fru Krak to keep her supposedly dead husband’s presence a secret? A hundred kroner? Two? Per month?

  I much liked this idea of mine, but just as I was getting my teeth into it, Else asked: ‘Why don’t he just seize the house, & boot Fru Krak out? It’s his property, after all, ain’t it?’

  ‘God knows,’ said Gudrun. ‘But again, it points to a pact’

  ‘And what does he do in there, do you think?’

  ‘The same as he always did, I expect,’ she replied, almost happily. ‘Tinker with his engineering all day. He’d lock himself away in there for days at a stretch,’ she reminisced. ‘Then when there were visitors – the noises you’d hear! Noises like murder. But I’ll tell you one thing. On those nights, Fru Krak always pretended she’d gone deaf. Never asked what he was up to. Didn’t want to know, I suppose. She wasn’t bothered how he came about his money, so long as her purse was chock-a-block when she went shopping.’

  ‘I clapped eyes on her myself last week,’ said Else. ‘I sold her some holly. For Sataan,what a nincompoop she looked in that green-tinted fur!’

  ‘All I know,’ said Gudrun after they had played the next round, ‘is that I counted folk coming in, & when I counted them leaving, there were always fewer.’

  ‘What sort of folk?’ asked Else, scowling at her cards.