The Library of Shadows

by Mikkel Birkegaard

  'But he might be dangerous,' Pau insisted.

  'It's not even certain that he has anything to do with this,' she replied. 'Besides, I never said it was a man, did I?'

  Pau shrugged and muttered something unintelligible.

  Katherina took out her key ring and removed the key to the shop. 'You can close up at five if there aren't any customers. Here's the key to the front door.'

  'I have a key,' replied Pau, sticking his hands in his pockets. 'I'll take care of things, don't worry.'

  At that moment Jon's Mercedes pulled up at the kerb outside the shop. Katherina grabbed her jacket and bag and headed for the door.

  'Have fun working,' she called, giving Pau a wry smile.

  'Very funny,' he said, raising his hand. 'Now get out of here.'

  Katherina went over to the car. Jon had climbed out and was standing there looking at the cloudless blue sky above the buildings. His nostrils flared and contracted in time with the deep breaths he was taking, as if he wanted to savour the city air one last time before their trip out to the country. It was the first time Katherina had seen him wearing something other than a suit. Instead, he had on jeans and a heavy woollen sweater. He looked good.

  'How long will it take to get there?' Katherina asked after a slightly awkward hug.

  'An hour, maybe an hour and a half,' replied Jon as he started the car. 'I don't think there's anything but tracks through the fields where his farm is located, so we'll probably have to take a roundabout route.'

  Katherina waved to Pau, who was watching them from the new windows of Libri di Luca. He didn't wave back but instead turned round and disappeared further into the shop so she couldn't see him. The Mercedes pulled into the street, and they slipped into the flow of traffic.

  Neither of them said anything until they got out of the city. Without the shadows from the buildings, the sharp autumn sun made them both squint.

  'Do you think he's the one?' asked Katherina.

  'It's possible, though I don't really see what his motive would be, twenty years after he was banished.' Jon paused. 'Unless Mr Nшrreskov has gone insane from being alone. Maybe one day he just snapped, and he turned his anger towards the event that started his whole downward slide – his banishment.'

  'But why did he stop, back then?'

  'It could be that he was satisfied with splitting up the Society,' Jon suggested. 'It was Luca's project and an effective way to hurt him.'

  Katherina thought about Pau's warning. He'd probably only meant it as a joke or as a means of getting out of being a bookseller for the day, but if Tom had gone crazy out on his farm, so isolated from other people, it suddenly didn't seem so implausible that he might react violently to being disturbed. If he really was the one, then he'd already committed murder.

  'But this time merely hurting Luca apparently wasn't enough,' Jon went on, sounding bitter. 'This time Luca had to die.'

  'Could it have been an accident? Maybe he just wanted to give Luca a scare, but he didn't stop in time.'

  'You could answer that better than me. Are receivers capable of killing by accident?'

  Katherina stared out of the windscreen at the road ahead. The sunlight made the surface gleam, giving it a raw, metallic sheen. All the guilt resurfaced and she felt her throat close up. The seatbelt seemed to tighten and the interior of the car suddenly felt very cramped. This time she couldn't disappear or evade the issue as she had been lucky enough to do many times before.

  'Are receivers capable of that?' Jon repeated.

  'Yes,' she replied reluctantly. 'I've killed someone myself.' She noticed that Jon gave her a sidelong glance, but she kept her eyes on the road and resisted the temptation to rub the scar on her chin.

  'It was my Danish teacher,' she began. 'My favourite teacher. Her name was Grethe. I don't remember how old she was. You don't pay much attention to things like that when you're a kid – that's when adults have only two ages: grown-up and old. I was twelve. My problems with reading had begun to show up for real and I was often sent to the remedial class, separated from my classmates. But not on that particular day.' She paused, shifting in her seat to find a more comfortable position.

  'As usual, everyone was begging Grethe to read us a story. I was one of the most eager because I loved hearing stories read aloud. It made me forget my own reading problems. When Grethe read to us, we were all equal. That day she had brought a new book to school.The Brothers Lionheart by Astrid Lindgren. One of the other girls had brought a cake – you know the kind that's coloured bright green and covered with a thick layer of brown frosting that gets stuck in your throat? It took time to cut the cake into equalsized pieces and hand them out to everyone in class. When we all had a piece, Grethe took her glasses out of a worn leather bag and put them on, pushing them into place on the bridge of her nose. As soon as she put on her glasses we were all as quiet as mice. She started reading. We'd already heard her read the Emil books andThe Children of Noisy Village and other stories by Lindgren, but we weren't at all prepared for the sad beginning ofThe Brothers Lionheart. I was instantly gripped by the story. From the very first page I was so enthralled that I even forgot to eat my cake.'

  Katherina fell silent. Jon turned his head to look at her for a moment as his way of urging her to go on.

  'Grethe was incredibly good at reading aloud. Since then I've often wondered whether she had the powers, or whether it was just a natural gift. Whenever she read, we would be instantly hypnotized by her voice and cadence. As I sat there in class, I had the feeling that this book was something special and I didn't want the reading ever to stop. I wanted to hear the story all the way to the end, without any unnecessary breaks or disturbances. The book had such a beautiful voice, gentle and patient like a loving grandmother. Without knowing what I was doing, I clung to Grethe's presentation of the story, almost pulling her through it. The strong feelings that the brothers shared in the beginning hit me so hard that I must have unconsciously reinforced them and sent them back to Grethe.'

  Katherina clasped her hands in her lap.

  'The bell rang, but I didn't want the story to stop there and I refused to let Grethe go; I forced her to keep reading. The other kids in class started looking at each other in bewilderment. They'd never experienced anything like this before, but everybody was happy that the story was continuing because we'd reached the section where Jonathan is reunited with his brother. But Grethe had started to shake. You couldn't hear it in her voice, but her hands were trembling, and there was a hint of fear in her eyes behind her glasses. I didn't notice much, because I was so happy. I wanted to hear the whole story, know everything that happened, so I greedily forced Grethe to go on.' Katherina sighed heavily. 'It was only when one of the girls in the class started screaming that I realized something was wrong. Blood was running out of Grethe's nose and ears, pouring down over her lips and chin and neck. The spell was instantly broken. I was terrified and covered my mouth with both hands so I wouldn't scream. Grethe's voice stopped. Her body collapsed and toppled over onto the floor, making her glasses fly across the linoleum. Everybody else jumped up to help her. Some kids ran for help while one of the boys, whose father was a fireman, put Grethe in a first-aid position. But I stayed in my seat. I couldn't take my eyes off the body on the floor. Grethe's eyes were staring blankly at the linoleum and I didn't doubt even for a second that she was dead. I knew I had killed her.'

  Katherina looked out of the side window, away from Jon.

  'You didn't know what you were doing,' he said. 'How could you know?'

  The feeling of guilt was back, full force. Hadn't she known? The incident in the classroom had taken place after she had first met Luca, who had warned her at the very beginning not to focus her powers too intensely. And even though she'd been totally immersed in the story, she had still picked up tiny danger signals, such as the fact that Grethe's body was shaking and the nervousness of the other kids. Yet in spite of everything, she had kept on going until it was too late.
r />   'They said she had a cerebral haemorrhage. In biology class they showed us how something like that can happen. They went over the model of the brain and explained how blood pressure, veins and blood flow are all connected.'

  'You didn't tell anyone about this?'

  Katherina shook her head. 'Not until much later. Then I told Luca and Iversen and a couple of others in the Society. They were the only ones who would be able to understand.'

  'What about your parents?'

  'I'd already subjected them to enough, with my dyslexia and the voices I claimed to hear.'

  Jon turned off the motorway and they began a lengthy drive along country roads through villages and woods and over hills. After a while, as they were driving past green fields, Jon slowed down. He pulled out a piece of paper from between the seats.

  'There's supposed to be a turn-off on the left somewhere around here,' he said, leaning forward to peer out of the windscreen. A few hundred metres further along, he stopped the car. On the left a muddy, rutted track led across the field and disappeared into a grove of trees. Next to the track was a sign with the number 59 on it.

  They looked at each other.

  'Ready?' asked Jon.

  'Ready.'

  Jon turned the wheel and slowly drove along the rutted track. Even at that slow pace they were tossed about in their seats.

  After twenty metres a sign appeared at the side of the road.

  '"No trespassing",' Jon read.

  Ten metres further on there was another sign.

  ' "Private property" and "Trespassers will be reported to the police",' Jon quoted. 'Not especially hospitable, is he?'

  'He knows we're coming,' said Katherina calmly.

  'What do you mean? Have you seen him?'

  'No, but he can hear us.'

  'Are you sure? We can't even see the farm yet.'

  'The signs,' Katherina said. 'They're not just there to keep people away.'

  Jon gave her a look of surprise.

  'They act as a warning system,' she explained. 'He "heard" you read them.'

  Jon stared at her for a couple of seconds in disbelief, until he realized what she meant.

  'Now I get it.' He looked embarrassed. 'Sorry.'

  'That's okay,' said Katherina. 'Such brief texts can't tell him anything about us except that we're on the way.'

  They followed the track through the small grove of trees. More signs stood along the road. Others were fastened to tree trunks, and even though Katherina sensed that Jon tried not to read them, she still received their text: 'No admittance', 'Guard dogs', 'Private property'.

  After a hundred metres they arrived in a big clearing, and there stood a white-painted farm building with three wings and a thatched roof. In many places the paint was peeling off the walls. Big green patches of moss covered the straw on the roof. One window was covered with plywood and the rest looked as if they hadn't been washed since they were installed. The perimeter of the clearing was filled with rusty farm implements that had long since served their purpose and had been left to fall apart.

  Jon drove his Mercedes into the farmyard where grass and weeds had taken over most of the area from the gravel. A grey Volvo estate car was parked next to one wing of the building.

  'That must be the main building,' said Jon, pointing to the one behind the Volvo. He parked in front of the estate car, and they got out.

  After the echo from the closing doors had faded, the place was utterly quiet. Katherina savoured the silence as she looked around. The house they had decided was the main building was about a hundred square metres with windows a metre and a half off the ground. She couldn't see in, either because of the thick layer of dirt on the panes or because something was covering them on the inside. The two other wings were in worse shape. On one, half the roof had caved in; the other lacked both windows and doors.

  Jon went over to the front entrance. A big sign with a lot of text was fastened to the heavy oak door.

  'Don't read it,' Katherina warned. 'It's too long – it'll just make things easy for him.'

  Jon nodded and looked the other way as he fumbled with the door knocker. The pounding sound echoed over the farm. Jon leaned close to the door to listen. Nothing happened. He glanced at Katherina and shook his head. He knocked again, this time a little harder.

  Katherina went over to one of the windows and tried to peer inside, but a dark cloth prevented her from looking into the room. She tried the other windows facing the yard, but they were all covered with curtains, furniture or plywood.

  'Hello! Anybody home?' shouted Jon at the door.

  Katherina thought she saw a shadow in one of the empty windows in the building with the collapsed roof. She slowly strolled towards what must have once been the stable. Again she saw a shadow, this time behind a windowpane that was so filthy it was impossible to tell what or who the shape was.

  'Jon,' she called in a low voice as she kept walking towards the stable.

  Jon stepped away from the front door and went over to her.

  'Yes?'

  She pointed at the stable without speaking.

  The door was in the middle, facing the yard. It had once been blue but dry rot and wear and tear had turned it almost completely grey and it hung wearily from its hinges. Katherina gave it a shove. With a long-drawn-out screech the door reluctantly opened.

  'Hello?' she called. 'Anyone here?'

  She stepped inside with Jon right behind her. The space had not been used as a stable in a very long time. The stalls were filled with rubbish, the remains from the collapsed roof or crates and furniture.

  'Over there,' said Jon, stepping past her.

  At the other end of the stable, closest to the main building, a door opened and they saw a silhouette run out, slamming the door. Jon raced for the door, having to jump over crates and old junk blocking his way. Katherina instead turned on her heel and ran out into the yard and then over to the main house. She reached the corner of the building just as Jon came bursting out of the door. They continued on together to the gable end and then around to the back of the house. They didn't see anyone, but they did hear a door slam. Banging and pounding sounds revealed that the door was being emphatically bolted.

  They slowed down and stopped outside a dark, solid-looking door with black metal hinges.

  'We just want to talk to you,' shouted Jon, out of breath.

  There was no reaction from inside the house.

  'Tom?' Katherina ventured. 'We need your help.'

  Jon knocked on the door.

  'Tom Nшrreskov? We know you're in there.'

  They listened tensely.

  'Go away,' they suddenly heard from behind the door. 'You have no business being here.' The voice was low and hoarse.

  'We just want to talk to you, Tom,' said Katherina.

  'I have nothing to say to you. Get out of here, or I'll call the police.'

  'Won't you at least confirm that your name is Tom Nшrreskov?' asked Jon.

  'There's no Nшrreskov here. My name is Klausen. It says that on the door. Now go away.'

  'We know that you changed your name in eighty-six,' said Jon. 'We know that you were thrown out of the Society, and we know why.'

  For several seconds there was no response from behind the door. Then they heard a faint muttering. Katherina and Jon looked at each other.

  'It sounded like he repeated the words "thrown out",' whispered Jon.

  'What are you whispering for?' yelled the man behind the door. 'Who are you? What do you want?'

  'We just want to talk to you,' Katherina repeated. 'My name is Katherina, and Jon Campelli is with me.'

  Again a couple of seconds of silence behind the door.

  'Campelli?'

  'Jon Campelli,' Jon confirmed. 'I'm the son of-'

  He was interrupted by the sound of bolts being thrown. Slowly the door opened a crack and a head came into view. The face was almost completely hidden by hair and a beard. A pair of wide-open blue eyes looked Jon up
and down.

  'Campelli,' said the man again, nodding to himself.

  'We just want…' Katherina began, but stopped when the man pulled the door wide open and took a step back.

  'Come in, Jon, come in. I have a message from your father.'

  18

  Jon's feet suddenly felt very heavy. He couldn't lift them but just stood there staring at the man in the doorway. A tall, smiling man with a mass of hair, a lean body, probably even skinnier than his loose dark-green sweater and baggy cords intimated, and a slightly bowed back. His big beard was grey at the ends, and in several places it was matted and knotted.

  'Come in,' said the man again, motioning them eagerly inside with bony fingers.

  Jon felt Katherina's hand on his shoulder, and he slowly stepped through the doorway into the house. When they both stood inside a small dark hallway, Tom Nшrreskov slammed the door behind them. They stood still in the dark, listening to him carefully locking the door. The air was rank and heavy.

  'Excuse me,' said Nшrreskov as he slipped past them. 'Just let me turn on the light.' A dim lamp in the ceiling came to life, casting a yellow glow over a cramped hallway cluttered with cardboard boxes of various sizes. 'I don't use it much myself. The light, I mean.'

  He disappeared through an opening between the boxes, which led to another room, and there too he turned on a light. Katherina and Jon followed him into a big room. All four walls were plastered with newspaper clippings, pictures and countless little yellow slips of paper with hand-written notes. Multi-coloured strings were stretched between many of the pieces of paper, so the whole thing looked like a web of information, a paper version of the Internet. In the middle of the floor, right underneath the glare of a bare bulb, stood a big, worn leather chair, and in front of the chair was a Morocco ottoman that looked as though it had been punctured. All around the chair were stacks of books, in no apparent order.

  Tom Nшrreskov ushered them onwards into the next room, which was filled with bookshelves as well as a large sofa which, judging by the bedclothes, also functioned as a bed. In front of the sofa was a low coffee table covered with countless leather-bound volumes. He quickly gathered up the bedclothes and tossed them behind the sofa. After giving the cushions a cursory brushing with the palm of his hand, he motioned for them to sit down.