6
I sat in my pale green wing chair. My home is not filled with designer furniture; it’s simply got things that make me feel comfortable. It’s a place that means a lot to me and here I can let go and relax; here I am at peace with the world. I had seen the old armchair with mahogany colored legs at a flea market behind Frederiksberg Town Hall. They matched the frame of the seat, and created a beautiful deep contrast to the pale green velvet upholstery. That chair was just made to sit in and it’s where I do all my serious thinking.
Beside it stands a beautiful hourglass shaped brass table that I brought home from India. The top forms a perfect space where I can put my chai, a blend of black tea and herbs and spices which originated in India. I love making chai and it can take up to an hour to assemble the ingredients I’m in the mood for; it’s just like being pampered. This time I had just made a traditional version with cardamom, cinnamon, cloves, honey and soy milk. I picked the cup up and smelled the aroma and sipped it, feeling the warmth spread down through my chest and I gave a satisfied sigh.
I had poisoned the man whom I had pretended to love for the past few months and had sometimes lived with. The man who had beaten me, given me away to his friends, cheated on me and called me a whore in other people’s company.
Now I was free to live my life as I wanted again; the freedom I got back when I killed him. I knew what I should do with my life right then and it felt a little easier to be in the world. The last three months had passed with planning the murder of Verner. Preparations had filled everything - my thoughts, my body and my heart; if I have one. There was no way back and it had become a deep and fascinating occupation.
Over the years, I have mostly done my killings early in the relationship, but part of me wondered why women stay with abusive men. Why do they not just get away from them? One of my therapists believed that we are programmed to seek what is good for us - that we often seek what we know, although it is unhealthy to achieve a distorted sense of security and predictability. Whether she was right, I was not quite sure, but I had to figure it out.
I was sick and insane to be with him. He had no right to treat me like he did and he had to pay with his life. Now it was over - the party was finished and the guests gone – it was time for the cleanup and it was a fabulous feeling. I smiled and gave a satisfied sigh. I would really rather have caused him more pain and suffering, splashing and smearing his blood and brains on his precious chairs and carpet; but you can’t always have everything, can you?
But from the subjugation and planning I had learned something I could use - the reason that women are the target. Men who would otherwise mistreat women become like little children when they’re not handing out their abuse. They are children who need not just a mother figure, but one who, in every respect, will provide for them and their needs.
Verner always said that without me he was lost; that is when he has not calling me a whore, worthless and inept. He said he could not do without me; I was the one who brought sense and meaning into an otherwise crazy world; he called me his muse. My life was suddenly given a whole new meaning; I no longer lived only for myself, but now also for Verner. You can almost get high from your importance in a relationship where you would otherwise feel insignificant. You become totally dependent on the feeling and desire to feel it again and again; it’s the sense of importance of being wanted and indispensable.
There were times when I felt like an addict when I tried to cheat Verner into giving me a sense of him needing me a lot. It was quite interesting to experience, but also sad and pathetic, bordering on the ridiculous tragicomic. In other words, an addiction like any other dependency, but this one makes women get together with men who beat them. They are junkies for the abuse.
In my mind I went through the numerous questions the Weeble had asked me and wondered if I had the answer exactly right for him. Did he really drink too much? Did I know everyone in his circle of friends? Which ones had seen us together? Did he have any enemies?
Enemies? If the definition is of someone who gets up in a bar and provokes four big strong guys so the owner has to call the police, in fear of getting all his furniture smashed, yes – it’s conceivable that Verner had some enemies. But real enemies? No, not in that sense. Well, only me but the Weeble wasn’t told about that one.
When asked about that by the Weeble I just said that I did not know of any and gave him the names of all those who Verner had been involved with, including his daughter, the cleaning lady, and a few of his equally drunken friends.
Finally, as he followed a handbook on ‘Behavior for a Compassionate Police Officer’ to the letter, Hansen had asked me if I was okay alone, or whether I needed help from someone who could be with me while I got over the violent experience. He made it sound like there had been streams of blood everywhere, but Verner had just collapsed, with little foam at the mouth, and a few jerks before I finally got rid of him. Inside I was amused, but assured him that I had friends to support me so he called for a taxi to drive me home. I had the feeling that Peter Hansen wanted to believe that I probably had a hand in the dear Verner’s death, but there was not much he could do about it.
Some days later, I was told that Verner had died of natural causes; there was no reason to do an autopsy. It was really a shame because I would have enjoyed seeing his body cut up, and the top of his skull sawed off so they could take his spiteful and vindictive brains out. I did feel a little relief, however, when cardiac arrest was accepted as the cause of death, so that should not be made an autopsy. It was a bit like an exam where you actually know that you have done well, but delude yourself into thinking that you are in doubt, until you get the confirmation. But I would, of course, not have chosen the method of Verner’s last goodbye if I was not convinced it was safe. I am always very careful when I dance with a monster who is about to be dispatched.
The funeral was a travesty; the small octagonal church was too nice for Verner. It lay behind a low hill, with a well-tended cemetery, adorned with specially selected gravestones; a place to honor the dead and to care for the living. The cone-shaped roof went up to a small bell tower and ended where a tiny weathervane stretched up against the cold blue sky. The nearby park echoed with the mournful one-tone toll from the lone but loud bell, as if anyone could make this a wonderful day when we did again commit an idiot in the grave. I stood there in tears, a little cautious and uneasy, and said my last goodbye to Verner. For some reason, Peter Hansen was there and I sensed that he was watching me, but now it seemed as if my drama had finally done enough to deserve an Oscar.
Like the scenes at his death, I had practiced this part of the drama by watching movies, but my acting talent was honed to perfection as I also used to glide effortlessly through much in my life, and especially through Verner’s final months, by making him think that I cared. He shared his miserable life story with me, and told me how terrible he felt. No one really understood him and he was very sorry for himself, always so misunderstood. He was especially furious with all those in the media who, he decided, didn’t value his great talent.
“They’re just jealous”, he whimpered like a little kid who cannot get the same toy as his best playmate has.
“They hate that I can do something they cannot, I really have talent, as opposed to them. My talent is a gift, while theirs is just a scam. Oh, those pathetic little people, they would be better off being librarians.”
And so, as he kept himself indefinitely in pathetic self-satisfaction, I turned off the sound button and pretended I was listening. As a programmed robot, I nodded patiently and appeared appreciative, with a serious, worried look as I thought about what color shoes I would buy that matched my new clothes. I looked at him with a compassionate gaze with my head slightly tilted, as if I was really there for him. At times, his megalomania was so miserable and I so full of contempt that I could hardly wait to kill him. But I told myself not to rush things.
A few
second-rate journalists and small-celebrities appeared in the church, and I completed the final scenes in my own production in a complete Jackie Kennedy style, including hat and large sunglasses. A little nervous I agreed to speak “for just a moment” with the journalists who wanted to talk with Verner’s last girlfriend. I told them that he had been unhappy and felt misunderstood. His career was otherwise going well after his breakthrough in one of the first reality shows. I said we had split up because we wanted different things in life, but we’d been happy again. Those were the words they received from the grieving girlfriend, oh how I wished I could have told them the truth.
Now I yearned to put the long, agonizing nights behind me where he drunkenly and in desperation had pulled me around by the hair as a painful punishment because I would not admit that it was my fault that the apples, purchased in a sealed bag, had brown spots and tasted of flour. Or the days when I received a stinging slap because it was raining and he wanted to sit on the terrace.
“It’s not because it’s your fault. I’m just so sad. What should I do?” he asked one evening when he had pushed me to the floor and kicked me in the stomach.
The question was always rhetorical since I never responded. But no matter what he chose to get excited and angry about, the sorrow redeemed him by taking it out on me. Afterwards he wept helplessly, hugged me, kissed me sincerely and touched me. I was helpless and lost. I just let him do what he wanted, while tears of pain were streaming down my face. I felt dirty and powerless. My head was pressed against his muscular shoulder, and he held me close to him, so we avoided eye contact. He held me in an iron grip, like a drowning man who has caught the last board from a sinking boat.
But his fingers were devious and cunning and astutely they would walk down into my lap, and I felt my body take over while I heard his softly moaning in my ears. My body was easy to convince and, reluctantly, I was soon wet. Slowly but desperately, his moves drove me to orgasm while he whispered with a sweet and slightly raspy voice that he could not live without me. I was the only one who understood him; I was the only one in his life. He used such tender words while he smeared soothing ointment on all the places where he had hurt me. It was deeply shameful, pitiful and disgusting.
Afterwards I was limp, exhausted and discouraged, my eyes were closed, and he carried me to bed and put the covers tightly around me. He looked at me with pleading eyes, and said he loved me; and while I sank into a deep sleep, I imagined that moment, and all the different ways he would have to pay - soon.
The next day everything would be back to normal, at least Verner’s version of normal. We never spoke and as if it had happened he was sweet and gallant, but already distracted and preoccupied with his own thoughts. It was as if he were already underway with developing a quirky to plan as to what the next thing to piss him off would be.
In the bathroom I would try to wash away the shame, the shame of finding pleasure and release from his violence. I smeared on a thick layer of makeup to hide the bruises, sighed into the mirror while I found myself comfortable in a state of waiting for when he would call me so I could either laugh and feel unique, maybe even loved and important, or be punished for things I had not done. It was a ritual that in the beginning only rarely occurred, but as time passed, it became more and more frequently repeated. Thus, I was part of the predator’s world.
Now at his final curtain call, tucked behind my big sunglasses and with a cup of coffee untouched in front of me, I thought about how good it was that I didn’t have to work. It really would have put a big damper on my life and my ‘special projects’.
In popular movies and novels serial killers have a job, but in the real world, it is hardly possible to juggle an ordinary life and an effective number of killings at the same time, and certainly not just in Denmark. I had to travel far and wide and select men from other countries; if I were ‘active’ in only one area it would be too conspicuous, and the men I killed could be traced back to me in different ways. There is a reason that real serial killers are often shy and live a secluded life. It was, I realized, because I thought I had met a few on my travels. I had never spoken to one, just recognized the scent.
Of course, Verner not my first, but his death was different because I had spent so much time on planning. Perhaps also because he was a little famous and the risk was greater because of the attention his death would get. But it was satisfying to know that I was in top form; and I should continue to be from now on, and remember the joy of careful planning. Still, I was very aware that I now had to go abroad for a while; it could arouse police suspicion, if there were too many dead men in my wake at home.
I had only just had that thought when I realized that Peter Hansen was standing beside me. He was red in the face and looking very annoyed, but it took only a split second before I forgot all about him. For right in his wake followed another man and as soon as I saw him, the church, the coffin, the organ and other mourners faded into the background; there was only room for this man. He moved with an elegant glide; almost dancing toward me. Each part of his body seemed to work as one and there was not the usual jerky or erratic movements that are normally in a human walk. This guy seemed to be pushed by an invisible energy. Like a cat he had that soft, almost lazy and very purposeful grace as he moved over to me.
“Philippe Alandra. I’m so very sorry for your loss.”
He gave me his hand, big and golden brown which I thought would crush my hand, but instead it was soft, the grip gentle yet firm. In the same movement he bowed easily, and brought my hand up to his mouth and kissed the air just before his lips hit my skin. I felt the heat and it was like getting a shock throughout my body. He smelled of sun and gun oil and, mixed in with these scents, there was a slight but distinct aroma of a man. He was not a predator and it came as a surprise to me. My body responded as if I had been in shock, and I pulled my hand away; he looked up with puzzled expression. His face was very masculine, with a jaw with the hint of a dark beard, a large nose with a slightly skewed arc which testified that it had been broken and had not been put properly back in place. His wide-awake eyes, with a clear gaze, searched for details and contexts.
“Sorry. I did not mean to scare you! I understand it’s a very sensitive time for you.”
His voice had a dark syrup edge, slightly hoarse with an accent that suggested the endless olive groves in Andalusia.
I just nodded; I was too shocked to say anything.
“I was a big fan of Mr. Damgaard. If there’s anything I can help with do please let me know.”
With his brown eyes that peered intensely through long, black lashes he stared at my sunglasses as if to discern my eyes behind them. Beside him Peter Hansen gave a little snorting sound that left none of us in any doubt that he did not care for the situation. He finally spoke:
“I think we should let Miss Tofte Nielsen alone with her grief,” he said sharply as he looked straight at me, as if I had no sunglasses on at all.
“I’m sorry, we should not have come,” he said in an attempt to smooth things out. I felt momentarily puzzled by this generosity that I would not have expected from him.
I just nodded almost imperceptibly, and in the same moment the minister came up to me and took my hand. I turned to him, but as the two police officers disappeared out of the church door it felt as if Philippe Alandra was buried deep inside me.
7
Marie held hands over her ears and winced as his furious tirade just went on and on like a never-ending hailstorm.
“Why do I say it again and again and again?” cried her father, although the target of his anger was less than a few feet away. “Why the hell do you always have to ruin any pleasure for me?”
A cloud of froth flew from his mouth into the air, his face frozen in a mask of fury. It was almost as if an alien creature had taken over his body, something so outrageous and dangerous that no one could stop or control it. Marie had seen her father a
ngry many times before, but never quite like this. Later in her life, she would come to compare it with the character you would see in the movies, the ones in the most scary horror films. Gone was the original human being, replaced with something terribly evil and satanic, a creature without conscience, one that was driven to punish and hurt in order to survive.
Although Marie was now twelve and no longer a little girl, she crawled under the desk in the living room, without making the slightest noise. She’d had many years of practice in making herself invisible and silent. She crouched in a fetal position, pressed against the far corner, sticking her fingers in her ears in a vain attempt to block out the raging madness. Unfortunately, she could still see everything from where she crouched, but she could not close her eyes; the world would go to pieces if she closed them. She had to look at the normal things around her to be sure that they still existed and not everything had gone totally crazy.
Her father reached out, and for a moment it seemed as if he would take hold of her mother’s shoulder, but his hand moved quickly to the left and landed with a hard slap on her cheek. Her mother lost her balance and stumbled with a shocked expression. Marie saw it all happen in slow motion; she saw how the terror flooded her mother’s face. He swung his arm again and with the back of his hand sent her mother crashing to the floor when she lost her footing and slipped in her worn slippers.
He glanced over to the desk where Marie hid.
“Now look there! Now you have made Marie afraid again! Why are you doing this to us, you bloody, brainless bitch? I try and try to get it to work, but you just have to ruin everything!”
His latest outburst now came as he bent over his wife, who lay on the floor. Dust particles danced around in the morning sun like a swarm of tiny insects. Her mother’s interest in cleaning was very limited so months could go by in between the vacuum cleaner making an appearance.
Dead Men (Marie and Lotte Book 1) Page 5