The Exception (5 page)

She scrambles over bicycles and dustbins, and over the fence into the neighbouring yard. One more yard to go before she finds an unlocked gate. She runs out into a street that is not her own.

After about a hundred metres she stops to look behind her. There are people, but none of them seems to be in pursuit. Here she will be harder to spot.

Whom has she written about recently?

Barzan Azis, a small dentist with a large moustache, who lives in a penthouse flat and has a history of personally having taken the lives of at least 120 Kurds and many Iraqi journalists and intellectuals. Aziz strangled his victims with a steel wire, except in some cases, when he hammered nails into their skulls.

Romulus Tokay, an ex-member of the Romanian secret police, was put in an orphanage at the age of eighteen months. He escaped after killing one of his teachers and is currently employed in Colombia, where his usual practice has been to hang people upside-down in trees and light fires under their heads.

And what about George Bokan? He was raised in the United States and played football in college, but went back to Serbia in the early 1990s to help fight the war. Bokan trained snipers, one hundred men at a time, in the skill of killing innocent civilians from vantage points in the hills around Sarajevo.

There are so many more. Iben has summarised the witness statements and other evidence of the activities of mass murderers such as Najo Silvano, Bertem Ygar, William Hamye and others,
who between them have killed hundreds of thousands of their fellow men. It is all on the website, as are her condemnations of a whole array of military units, regimes and power-mad dictators.

Have they been hunched over their PCs in Serbia, the Philippines, Iraq, Turkey – wherever – studying her accounts of their crimes?

She looks around in all directions as she walks towards Nørrebro Street. The autumn air is cutting through her thin blouse and the sweat is beginning to dry on her skin, adding to the chill. She overtakes a pale girl with a ring through her nose, military boots and pink highlights.

Iben dials 112 – emergency services – on her mobile and tries to explain quickly to the woman at the other end what has happened.

‘Hold on, please. You say that someone sent you an email and now you’ve run out into the street?’

‘Yes … no. Not exactly. It was a death threat. The sender is probably a war criminal. Maybe from Iraq!’

The woman’s voice is dry, tight: ‘This is an emergency number. It is reserved for serious calls. I have to ask you to get off the line. Tomorrow you can phone your local police station – if you still feel this matter is important, that is.’

Iben tries to explain that it’s her job to write about international war criminals and that the threat is not just a practical joke played by an ex-lover, or whatever the woman is imagining. But she is not persuaded and replies abruptly: ‘You’re blocking an important emergency line. That’s an offence and you may be fined. I can see your number in front of me. If you don’t end this call, we’ll have to fine you.’

Iben is about to reply when the woman hangs up.

Is she right? Iben asks herself. Is this an attack of hysteria? It would be good to think so. Then she could simply turn round and walk back home.

She’s walking quickly now, keeping an eye out for suspicious-looking men. The trouble is that they are everywhere. Small
gangs of swarthy men are driving up and down Nørrebro Street in souped-up cars and hanging out in the many Middle Eastern take-aways. Men in black leather jackets walk towards her, follow behind her.

Who knows how a war criminal reacts when he first reads the description of himself on a website? Is it a blow to his sense of honour? Might not his claim for asylum in some European country or his pending court case be affected? Some of these men would slit her throat as easily as they’d swat a fly. She has seen photos of massacred people and listened to survivors speaking at conferences. These men do not murder because they hate: even being vaguely irritated is enough.

But why should a killer take the trouble to go after her? Iben is so insignificant. Or is she? Her articles and abstracts describe events involving many hundreds of thousands of men, all experienced killers and mentally unstable. If just one of them is ‘irritated’ enough, her fate is probably sealed.

There are no police patrol cars around and by the time she’s reached Nørrebro Circus she decides to phone the emergency number once more. She’ll try to explain things better this time and insist on talking to somebody who’s prepared to listen.

At that moment her mobile rings. It’s Malene. ‘Iben! I’ve tried to phone you at home. Where are you?’

‘At Nørrebro Circus. Without a coat. I’m freezing.’ Iben begins to describe what has happened, but doesn’t get far before Malene interrupts her.

‘I’ve had a threatening email too! It says I’m evil and must die. I only just opened it!’

Iben can’t help shouting. ‘You mustn’t stay in your flat!’

Malene sounds confused. ‘I can’t stay here? I don’t know … I didn’t take it that seriously. Should I have?’

Iben hesitates. It’s a comfort that someone else has been threatened too. Everyone in the Centre might have received one of these emails and perhaps dozens of people in similar organisations abroad.

‘Malene, I was so sure there was someone in my flat. It could’ve been … I mean, if there was nobody in your place … Anyway, they could just be trying to scare us. If they really wanted to kill somebody, it’d be silly to send an email first.’

‘That’s what I thought.’

Iben is perfectly aware of what her friend Grith, a trained psychologist, would say about her reaction: it is a response conditioned by her experiences in Kenya, one of exaggerated watchfulness – ‘hyper-alertness’ – which is the lasting effect of previous exposure to danger.

A thought suddenly strikes Malene: ‘Iben. Do you think your reaction is because of Nairobi and all that?’

‘I suppose …’

‘Listen, find a taxi and come on over. I’ll wait for you in the street and pay for the cab.’

‘But if these people break into your flat, they’ll find both of us.’

‘Iben, I don’t think so. Look, it won’t happen.’

Iben doesn’t answer, so Malene hesitates. ‘OK. What do you suggest then?’

‘What about meeting in a café?’

‘But we’ll have to go back to our own places afterwards.’

Iben hates playing the part of the weak female, especially with Malene, but suggests that there are lots of people’s places where they could crash until they have a better idea of the danger they’re in.

‘Oh, Iben. OK, I’ll come.’ They agree to meet at Props Café.

Iben feels she has been leaning too heavily on her friend, and can’t quite bring herself to ask Malene to make sure that she isn’t being followed.

Iben sets out towards the café, along the road by the Assistens Cemetery. Suddenly, for no reason, she starts running. She never cared for sports of any kind, despite her friends’ attempts to persuade her, but now running feels right. She overtakes pedestrians on the broad pavement, where deep shadows are
pierced by shafts of light from shops and passing cars.

A white car skids to a halt not far ahead, and two men jump out so quickly that a cyclist almost collides with one of them. He calls out angrily. The men shout back in reply, and Iben slips through the slow-flowing stream of cars to reach the other side of the street.

It is time to calm down and take stock. She turns to get a look at the two men. They’re standing in the street talking to a third man, whom they must have spotted from the car. All three have dark sideburns and one of them wears metal-framed glasses with small round lenses.

She starts off again, jogging now. The pavement is narrower here and cluttered with a greengrocer’s stall, bicycle racks and advertising boards.

It occurs to her that the emailer might not have had far to travel. There are thousands of political refugees in Copenhagen, all of whom have had terrible experiences and whose family members or friends have been victimised in armed conflicts, persecution, torture and murder. Some may have carried out acts of violence themselves. If Iben has exposed someone, this might be their response.

She feels breathless and slows down. Ahead of her is a tall, sickly-looking man with messy, pale-blond hair, wearing a torn camouflage jacket.

Over the last ten years almost five hundred journalists have been killed worldwide, mostly in undemocratic states. Did any of them receive emails from
[email protected]
? Iben hasn’t heard of them being tracked down in Western Europe. Who would be well informed about this?

Gunnar would, of course.

When the traffic lights change, an old BMW accelerates, its tyres screaming, and races to the next intersection. The lights turn against it and the driver has to brake again. A passer-by laughs.

Iben wants to phone Gunnar straight away.

She’s had a strange feeling about him all weekend, speculating about what his flat might be like and his lifestyle. The fantasy of moving in with him gives her an odd but comforting sensation. She would fit right in, she felt. But how could she know? – a man whom she has met just once and spoken with for an hour at most? But then, she explains to herself, over the years his writings must have taught her so much about the way his mind works, what his favourite words are, and the nature of his thoughts.

She swerves to avoid a group of noisy teenage boys.

Then she thinks about the word ‘self-righteous’ in the email. It seems they used different words in Malene’s email.

Iben begins to run again.

Malene is in the train, on the way back from a lecture tour in Jutland on behalf of the DCGI. Her lectures have gone well, but she’s used to that.

Rasmus is away on one of his sales trips, so back home their flat stands empty. Iben is in Nairobi. She has been away for a month and so much is happening to her that for days on end she hasn’t answered Malene’s emails or phone calls. Three of Malene’s best friends have had babies during the last year; all of them have moved out of the centre of town and are completely absorbed in their new families.

Nothing else for it: Malene must expand her circle of friends. There’s no way she can just hang on for two more months, waiting for Iben to write or phone. Which is why Malene is getting off in Odense before going on to Copenhagen. She has arranged to see Charlotte, a contact she made through the Association for Young Arthritic People, which offers volunteer ‘buddies’ as a means of support. They have never met, but they have exchanged lots of emails and spoken on the phone. Charlotte’s fighting spirit is tremendous. At last they have a chance to meet.

Malene steps from the taxi in front of a small terraced house of bright-yellow brick. She rings the doorbell. Sheltering under the roof of the porch stands a well-cared-for plant in an old blue-enamelled pan. Behind the glass in the door hangs a little wreath made of straw, suspended by a silver ribbon.

Charlotte’s face is pale under her mass of blonde curls. In her baby-blue blouse she looks pretty but bland, like a catalogue model, and completely unlike any of Malene’s friends.

They smile and hug.

‘Oh, how smart you are. So chic! You can tell you’re from the city.’

Strange to meet someone you’ve written to so often. Charlotte keeps smiling. Her lips are glossy with rose lipstick.

‘Let’s make ourselves more comfy.’

Malene leaves her coat in the hall. Charlotte leads the way, moving slowly and hesitantly. The sitting room is too warm.

‘Please sit anywhere you like. The coffee is ready.’

Malene settles down on a cream-upholstered armchair opposite a matching sofa. A large framed poster is hanging on the wall behind the sofa. Just as in her emails and on the phone, Charlotte is bursting with energy and optimism and there is something basically open and friendly about her. But Malene notices she is finding it difficult to get over to the sofa.

‘I’m sorry … what a shame that today is one of your bad days.’

‘Not at all. You mustn’t worry about me. I’m fine. Let’s just enjoy this.’ Charlotte smiles again, drawing back her small, prettily shaped lips over perfect teeth.

‘But it must be …’ Something makes Malene stop.

Her eyes travel quickly round the room. Each piece of furniture is more spread out than normal. She sips her coffee, thinking about what she sees. The gaps are the same everywhere, between chair and table, chair and chair, chair and wall. The simple answer is that this room is furnished to suit someone who often has to use a wheelchair to get about, even at home. There is no wheelchair to be seen, but it could be elsewhere. Maybe in the bedroom.

She notes that the light switches are operated by string-pulls. She has seen that kind of thing in shops selling gadgets for the disabled. People with severe joint problems find pulling a string easier than turning a switch. And what about the cushions on the sofa? There are lots, not in absurd quantities, but too many to fit in with the plain furnishings and very discreet colours of the room. The cushions, piled up, would allow Charlotte to half-sit, half-lie on the sofa.

It baffles Malene to find Charlotte so much more badly afflicted than herself. How can Charlotte carry out her job at Odense City Council? Why did Malene believe that they were more or less in the same shape? Discreet questioning about the job reveals the fact that it is a specially designed post of only twenty hours per week, personally devised for Charlotte. As Charlotte speaks, Malene feels that she has heard this before, probably in one of their phone calls. As likely as not she has simply forgotten about it, the bad news being outdone by all the good, cheerful stories from Charlotte’s life.

The conversation moves on. They talk about a series of documentary programmes on the radio and the best way of chopping almonds when your hands hurt and how good it would be to have wellington boots designed for arthritic feet.

It is cringingly awful. Why, Malene asks herself, do I know so little about this woman? – especially since I imagined that we share so much. I must’ve been chatting away on the phone without asking the right questions, without listening properly.