The Lake

by Lotte Hammer

  Benedikte Lerche-Larsen drank her espresso, quickly checked her handbag to make sure that she had remembered the money, which she knew perfectly well she had, then got up and half ran to her car. She was in a hurry.

  It was almost 11.30 at night when she got to Henrik Krag’s flat. She had been held up at the soup kitchen; they had been understaffed, two of the full-time workers were off sick. Henrik Krag washed up, she half-heartedly helped him dry. Sometimes she would drop a piece of crockery back into the washing-up bowl without looking at it, just for the sake of it. He didn’t protest, only washed it even more carefully; she tried the same cup three times, and he never complained. They discussed her favourite subject: the identity of their anonymous tormentor, and as usual it was futile, but she persisted nevertheless. Mostly to change the subject, Henrik Krag said:

  ‘You’ll soon be done in Stengade, isn’t that great?’

  ‘Yes, of course. Yes, it is. However, I’ve volunteered for some extra shifts.’

  He nearly dropped the washing-up brush.

  ‘You did what?’

  ‘I know it sounds ridiculous, and I haven’t got the time, but it’s – now don’t laugh – it’s the first real job I’ve ever had. Even if I don’t get paid. A job that isn’t working for my father, and . . . well, I’ve already promised them. After all, they need to eat too, and we’re really busy at the moment. But enough about me. You want to buy yourself a dishwasher.’

  ‘I did have one, but you scared her off.’

  She elbowed him. Hard. He winced and grinned. She elbowed him again.

  ‘We’ll have to go back to the lake one day, Henrik. Even though it’ll be unpleasant. I need to know where that picture was taken.’

  ‘Yes, you’ve told me so eight times. I’ll come with you. Have you been given your next task?’

  ‘I get it in a week; the psycho emailed me this morning.’

  ‘Will you promise to call me?’

  ‘Yes, I’ll call you. Now get a move on, it’s nearly midnight.’

  ‘Do you have to leave at midnight?’

  ‘No, I should have been home hours ago. But I have a present for you, and I want to give it to you while it’s still your birthday. And don’t look so surprised, I saw it in your diary and on Jan’s computer. Hasn’t anyone wished you happy birthday yet? Haven’t you got any presents?’

  He turned his head and replied evasively. Yes, he had gone to his mum’s for coffee and cake. Unfortunately Benedikte Lerche-Larsen pressed him and this time he told her the truth.

  ‘She was drunk and had forgotten all about it. It doesn’t matter, and I’m really touched that you have a present for me . . . that’s much nicer.’

  She chucked the tea towel over his shoulder and stroked him briefly between the shoulder blades, then quickly withdrew her hand as if she had done something wrong.

  ‘Come on then, you big baby, let’s go down to the car park.’

  He followed her down the stairs, excited and mystified. He hoped it wasn’t something that would humiliate him. He wouldn’t be able to handle that, not now, not today. He braced himself for the worst . . . and crossed his fingers. Walking in front of him, she said:

  ‘One is just a loan for the time being. We’ll have to wait and see. The other is your real present.’

  When he saw his motorbike, he couldn’t hold back the tears. He couldn’t remember the last time he had felt so happy. Joyously he turned around and reached out for her, and she pushed him away.

  ‘Control yourself. And it’s not a present, it’s my property. But you get to borrow it because you were so keen to protect me the other day in Gentofte. That was really sweet, although you’re crap at fighting.’

  He struggled to pay attention to her; she gave him the keys.

  ‘Aren’t you excited to know what your real present is?’

  ‘Yes . . . yes, of course. Really, Benedikte, this is the best . . .’

  She interrupted him.

  ‘Go on then, ask me what it is, you idiot.’

  ‘All right. What is it?’

  ‘A date with me. But you have to think of something we can do that I haven’t tried before.’

  She kissed her forefinger and trailed it down his nose. Then she turned on her heel and walked to her car.

  CHAPTER 40

  Svend Lerche spoke in a hectoring tone.

  ‘If you believe, you’ll find confirmation everywhere you look. Only the person who doubts will see the truth.’

  Benedikte Lerche-Larsen knew the words in her sleep; she had been force-fed them ever since she was a child, though she had yet to discover from which book he had stolen the quote.

  She looked at her father, exasperated, and concluded she couldn’t be bothered to give him an answer. In order to wind him up, she pointed to his erotic etchings and snarled:

  ‘When you die, that trashy porn will be one of the first things I sell.’

  Svend Lerche refused to let himself be provoked, and warmed to his theme: she had promised him a report on two poker players and she had failed to deliver. Now she was saying that she thought they were good enough to be moved up to the five-dollar table. Thought! Since when did they make decisions based on belief? He spat out the word. He wanted statistics, tables, graphs and game theory probability distribution based on relevant and valid data. She protested half-heartedly, knowing full well it would make no difference.

  ‘That report is on my desk by tomorrow evening, or I’ll dock your June salary by twenty per cent. By the way, where are you spending your evenings? You’re never here.’

  ‘That’s none of your business.’

  ‘When you don’t do your job, then it becomes my business.’

  ‘I was getting rid of that blackmailer, it took time.’

  ‘And I’m happy that you did, but I’m not happy that you won’t tell me how you did it. That makes me angry, and while we’re on the subject of things making me angry – did you know that Jan videoed our customers when they used our services? Your mother had to go round and personally take down over twenty hidden cameras.’

  ‘Yes, I was perfectly aware of that.’

  Svend Lerche spluttered through clenched teeth.

  ‘And you never thought to tell me!’

  ‘What am I? Human Resources? It’s your job to keep the staff in check. I can’t be doing everything around here.’

  ‘Do you know where he kept the footage?’

  ‘On his computer, the one I took over, but I’m guessing he kept a copy on a USB stick; that’s what I would have done. That footage will turn up on the internet one day, just you wait and see, and when it does, you’ll be leaving skid marks as you run from Bjarne.’

  She saw how a vein bulged on his forehead, she had hit a bull’s-eye with her reference to Bjarne Fabricius. Her father spoke with ice in his voice.

  ‘Go to your room and do your job.’

  She left the door to his study open on her way out. She knew it would irritate him even more than if she had slammed it.

  Back in her own flat Benedikte Lerche-Larsen did what her father had told her. She didn’t want him to dock her pay, though financially it made little difference. She received considerably more money from the prostitutes that she and her mother ran on the side without Svend Lerche’s knowledge. Rather it was the principle. She fetched herself a fizzy drink and activated the programs on her laptop, which she used to watch a poker player: an application which caused her own computer constantly to change IP addresses so external monitoring from the authorities was impossible, a program that connected to the poker player’s computer and would regularly show her his screen picture, and finally a Skype connection, which electronically distorted her voice, so the player wouldn’t know who he was talking to. The poker player said hello and they made small talk for a few minutes.

  She watched him for two hours, then she got bored. It was monotonous work. After each game she completed a report that was added to the Poker Academy’s considerable database of
over ten thousand games. This database was her father’s pride and joy. It was his concept, he had developed most of it himself, and it was an excellent tool for assessing a poker player’s skill and whether it would be profitable to move him up to a more expensive table. Finally she logged on as an ordinary player and played against him aggressively; she had the benefit of being able to see his cards, a not inconsiderable advantage for a poker player. He handled himself well and read her right a couple of times, after which he folded though he had a good hand. She made a note in a different register, then closed down all her applications except Skype.

  ‘According to our statistics, you could make eleven thousand kroner a week, if you went solo. Is that something you’ve thought about?’

  The subject wasn’t off limits, some of the Poker Academy’s players quit to go it alone, but many later returned.

  It took a little time before the answer came but Benedikte Lerche-Larsen didn’t pressure him. She knew that he was still busy playing.

  ‘Yes, I’m saving up, but it’ll be six months at least. More possibly.’

  ‘Could you recommend someone to replace you?’

  ‘No, not really.’

  ‘Think about it. And one more thing: would you like to earn a little extra money?’

  Of course he would. She explained. She needed information on some people and it would most probably be available on the internet. Was he a hacker? He confirmed that he was – as she had expected – they had touched on the subject before, but never directly. She told him what she wanted to know.

  ‘I’ll send you five thousand extra the next time you get paid.’

  ‘Why not ten?’

  ‘OK, seven and a half. You have two weeks.’

  ‘Where do I send the information? Do you have an email address?’

  ‘I’ll call you and ask for it, after which you’ll forget all about it. The latter is important, otherwise we have a problem.’

  ‘That sounds almost like a threat. I don’t want to get mixed up in anything.’

  ‘And that’s exactly why you’ll forget all about it. And yes, that is a threat.’

  CHAPTER 41

  Henrik Krag peered impatiently out of the window at the car park below, hoping that Benedikte Lerche-Larsen hadn’t forgotten their date. She was late and he had his mobile in his hand, ready to call her, when her car pulled up. Soon afterwards he opened his front door, and got a quick squeeze of the hand; this was new, almost intimate. She was a vision of loveliness.

  ‘I’ve been looking forward to this. Where are we going?’ she asked him.

  ‘It’s a secret. Wait and see.’

  ‘I hope we’re going on my motorbike.’

  He nodded.

  ‘Ever ridden a motorbike before?’

  ‘Never.’

  He found a jacket, some gloves and a helmet for her. She sniffed the jacket, it was leather and well-worn. ‘It reeks of smoke. Who wore it before me?’ she asked, disapprovingly.

  ‘Lots of different people. Once we get going, you won’t smell anything.’

  She accepted his argument, and they got kitted up.

  The weather, though chilly, was perfect for this time of year. The May sun beamed down on them, the sky was clear except for a glowing band of cloud to the east, and there was barely a breath of wind. They stood in front of the motorbike; Benedikte Lerche-Larsen studied it warily.

  ‘Up close that’s quite a beast. How fast does it go?’

  ‘Quite fast, but we won’t hit maximum speed today.’

  ‘Because I’m a newbie?’

  ‘Among other things.’

  ‘Any special instructions?’

  ‘Yes, don’t let go.’

  Just before they reached Solrød Strand, he left the motorway and they continued down a number of smaller roads until he turned off and onto a path. Henrik Krag reduced his speed considerably. Benedikte Lerche-Larsen loosened her arms around him and held onto his hips instead; eventually she let go of him completely. There was no one else on the path except for a runner, who yelled at them though they overtook him with care. The path soon ended in a badly maintained cart track. The view to their left was blocked by hazel bushes, tangles of bramble, ground elder, and couch grass; to their right a herd of cows chewed languidly on meadow grass. They stopped at the end of the track. Benedikte Lerche-Larsen took off her crash helmet and gave it to Henrik, eyeing her surroundings suspiciously, while he secured their helmets and locked the motorbike.

  ‘That was a great ride, but where are we, Henrik?’

  He jumped effortlessly across a fraying fence to the meadow, where grasses and stinging nettles grew knee-high.

  ‘Come on, we’re nearly there.’

  She scaled the fence, though not as elegantly, leaving a long, green algae stain on her trousers from her knee downwards.

  ‘Now look what you’ve done. Do I look like a milkmaid or a field biologist? And I’m telling you right now that if this involves horses, then forget it, I can’t stand them . . . Henrik, I’m not walking another step until you tell me . . . dammit!’

  She was talking to his back, which was heading along a well-trodden trail winding its way up a short, steep hill. She threw up her hands in a gesture of frustration and hurried after him. The heels of her boots kept sinking into the soft earth, but she managed to catch up and grab hold of his leather jacket, which he had unzipped.

  ‘Don’t you dare walk away from me.’

  He took her hand by way of reply, and she let him.

  On the other side of the hill the vegetation was shorter and sparser. Henrik Krag stopped before they reached the bottom. Then, without warning, he threw back his head and squawked out loud while pumping his cheeks like a faulty siren. Benedikte Lerche-Larsen gaped at him in astonishment, bordering on fear. He repeated the process, louder this time. And then for a third time, after which he got a response.

  A turkey strutted out from behind a bush a dozen metres ahead. Its tail feathers were extended as if to signal they were intruding on its territory. It stared them suspiciously with one eye, then scratched the soil with its strong talons as it threw back its head and again emitted its babbling call, the warts on its ugly, scarlet face quivering.

  Henrik Krag smiled proudly and said:

  ‘Give it a go, it’s not hard.’

  Benedikte Lerche-Larsen ignored his invitation. She furiously took his hand from hers, her eyes flashing.

  ‘Tell me, did you drag me out here, to the back of beyond, so that you could scream like an idiot at some stupid bird?’

  ‘Its name is E.’

  ‘You named it? No, no, don’t answer that, Henrik.’

  ‘Only letters.’

  ‘Only letters.’

  She angrily mimicked his call, but spun around, almost frightened, when a turkey behind her responded with a similar sound.

  ‘That’s B.’

  ‘Yes, of course it is. Hello, B. And where are A, C and D, and the rest of the alphabet? I’m guessing I’m about to meet them too. You’re such an idiot.’

  He said quietly:

  ‘They only go to F, and C is dead. I think he was slaughtered and eaten.’

  ‘Good heavens, what a tragedy, how about a minute’s silence for C, before we fuck off? Of all the people in the world, how did I end up with you? Is this where you take all your loser girlfriends?’

  ‘No, this is a first. Usually I just come here alone.’

  ‘To practise the alpha—’

  She stopped herself.

  ‘No, I didn’t mean that, I’m sorry. But this is a total train wreck of a date.’

  Yet she threw back her head like Henrik Krag and the turkey had taught her, and called at the top of her voice. She received three responses. Henrik praised her.

  ‘Good God . . . I’ve discovered my true vocation. Talking to turkeys. No, wait, it’s my turn again! They’re used to you, they deserve some variety.’

  She pushed him hard so his call failed. A few tears tric
kled down her cheeks without her showing any signs of wiping them away and, for a moment, he thought she was upset. Then he realised that she was laughing. He laughed with her, it was impossible not to.

  She cracked up during her fourth call. She convulsed with laughter, her hands clutching her stomach, slumping helplessly to her knees. He glanced anxiously at her trousers, stained from the moist, black soil. She might get annoyed about it when she recovered, and blame him. She followed his gaze, appearing to guess his thoughts, and she laughed at them as well. Then she dragged him down to where she was, and both of them howled with laughter, forehead against forehead. The turkeys wandered off to mind their own business; but the pair didn’t even notice. It took a long time before they regained some level of control, and then only because they avoided looking at each other, knowing full well that the tiniest giggle would trigger a new fit in the other. Benedikte Lerche-Larsen wheezed:

  ‘Bloody hell, Henrik, you could pull even Aphrodite with this stunt.’

  He struggled to get out the words.

  ‘I don’t know her.’

  ‘No, you don’t, and that’s her loss. This was a stroke of genius.’

  They got up and didn’t let go of each other until they were back at the fence. He offered her a hand, which she declined with a smile. On the other side of the fence she stood for a few moments, lost in thought.

  ‘All right, Henrik, one good turn deserves another. If you have plans for tonight, then cancel them because I’m staying with you. We need to stop at a DVD store on the way home, and if you can find a place where we can get a couple of half-decent pizzas, that would be perfect.’

  In the video store she picked their movie, while Henrik Krag collected crisps, a six-pack of Coke and some chocolate. She held up her choice, Inglourious Basterds.

  ‘Do you know it?’

  He tried his hardest, but to no avail. The first word of the title was incomprehensible. He couldn’t even see whether or not it was Danish. She came to his rescue.