Death By Water (7 page)

He pulls off his trousers and underpants, keeps the yellow T-shirt on. Behind the tongue of one of his trainers he puts the note he wrote in the kitchen.

He stands just where the breakers turn. They foam around his toes, frothing so the small bubbles burst. They don’t come to bring something, he thinks. They come to fetch something. He starts to wade out.

– Hey, Joe.

He stands there without turning round. Tries to tell himself it’s his imagination. Realises that it isn’t. Realises that Jacket is standing on the sand behind him.

– Bit late for a swim, isn’t it?

No one can stop what he has started on now. Postpone it maybe, but not stop it. He has given a promise. Doesn’t know who to, if it’s not to the one who stands in the dark pounding with the sledgehammer. There is nothing in the world that can make him go back on his word.

He half turns. Jacket is wearing the same dark clothes. His hair looks dirty and uncombed. A cigarette in one hand. Jo’s trainer in the other, with the note.

– It’s going to be a long night, Joe, says Jacket, and doesn’t seem the least bit bothered. – You’ve got plenty of time.

He takes a drag on the cigarette and offers it to him.

– Come and sit down here with me for a while. I’m not leaving until you tell me how things are working out between you and Ylva Richter.

D
EAR
L
ISS,

If you receive this letter, I am no longer. I sit watching how the dust slowly sinks down through the grey light falling from the window, and outside the wind whips up the autumn leaves and lays them down on the snow again. Even now that thought seems so strange. Not to be any more. It’s not a last-minute decision; it’s been latent for years, and now I’ve woken it up again. What you do will decide whether I send you this letter I’m writing, or burn it in the fireplace and carry on down my road a while longer. I won’t contact you, won’t lift a finger to influence you. The closest I can get to a feeling of relief right now is the thought that what is to come lies in your hands, not mine. And related to this relief is another thought: if you receive this letter, then you’ll also know what happened that time.

I first saw him on the plane. He passed by on the way to the toilet. I looked up from my book, the only luggage I had with me on that trip. His glance caught mine, but I don’t think he noticed me. I still remember the lines of verse I sat reading, over and over again, by the window:

I could have written a lot about Jo and Jacket. I could have described in detail the first meeting in Makrigialos that autumn. How I saved him from drowning himself. How he saved me. Not because I need to confess, Liss, but because it matters to me, sitting here, that you understand what you condemn me for …

M
AKE-UP OFF.
R
UBBING
, revealing strips of pale red facial skin in the sharp light. The photographer had insisted she cover up with this thick white mask. Something he wanted to bring out. Something stiffened, in contrast to the almost naked body.

She unfastened the clip, let the hair tumble down her back. It looked darker than usual, but still reddish. She sat a moment, considering what she saw in the mirror. The arc of the forehead, the eyebrows she had allowed to grow out wide, the eyes that seemed to be too far apart. It had always looked odd, but a lot of the photographers obviously liked it. Wim, whom she was working with today, maintained with a grin that it made her look elfin. She began drawing a brush through her hair, slowly, following the waves; it got caught in a tug, a quick jerk which she felt at the base of her skull, a reminder that she mustn’t linger too long in this distant state. It was past eleven o’clock. Part of her was aware of the need to slip down into a dark hole, sleep there for a day or two, or more. But her pulse was too quick and too hard.

Her mobile phone vibrated on the mirrored shelf. She checked the number – no one she knew – put it down again, carried on brushing. Had never liked this thick, difficult hair, apparently inherited from her grandmother.
Waves of fire
, Zako might say, when he was feeling melodramatic. And against a white wall or a pale sky it shone and attracted the eye, which was then obliged to carry on and see the face with the greenish eyes. She straightened her back so that her breasts became visible in the mirror. They were too small, but Zako was firm about not having them enlarged, at least not yet; they suited her young girl image. Like something out of a Jane Austen novel, he said. Zako had never read Jane Austen. Nor had she, for that matter.

The mobile buzzed again. Message from Rikke.
Liss, we’re in the Café Alto. Cool music, Zako’s asking about you
.

A flash of anger passed through her. He’d started sending her messages via Rikke. Thought she still didn’t know he was sleeping with her. Rikke had let it slip one morning over a week ago. She could read Rikke. Could read most people. The look in Rikke’s eyes was different that morning. The laughter a note higher than usual. When Liss asked if she’d seen any more of Zako that night, she’d dropped the breadknife on the floor. Confessed immediately. As though there was anything to confess.
So what
,
was Liss’s comment once she’d told the whole story. Rikke had been expecting her to flare up and make a scene. When that didn’t happen, she declared that Liss was the best friend she’d ever had, and that she was never going to let Zako feel her up any more. But how was she going to resist? Zako had done a thorough job on her. Taken her in such a way that she went around thinking about it for days afterwards, waiting to be taken again in exactly the same way. Walked around dreaming about him in a complete daze. He had her in his pocket. Literally, thought Liss, and noticed a smile in the now make-up-less face in the mirror.

She’d realised immediately once Rikke began doing little favours for him. Got him coke if he’d run out. Rang for a taxi when he was leaving. Rubbed her bulging arse up against his crotch every chance she got. Liss laughed at her on the quiet. To see Rikke as a panting bitch was liberating. Probably because she knew Zako would never get that kind of hold over
her
. Liss didn’t need him and wasn’t afraid to tell him that. Then he might talk nasty and be threatening. She owed him money, he might say. And didn’t he pay for the flat she shared with Rikke? He kept far too much of what she earned on her photo shoots, she might come back at him. Soon she’d have enough good contacts to run the show herself. She didn’t need a PhD in economics to make a few phone calls and read through a few contracts. She owed him for coke, he growled. Do you mean to say you’re making all this fuss over a few thousand kroner? she might shoot back. Do you want it now? Damn it, Liss, get a grip, he would hiss, but he’d already been driven back, way back inside his own territory.

One morning, this was in the little kitchen in the flat, he’d grabbed both her arms, twisted them behind her and pushed her up against the fridge. It hurt, she had bruises for several days after, but she looked him straight in the eye without showing the slightest sign of pain. He could have hit her, in the course of a few minutes destroyed her physically. But she wasn’t afraid of him. His threats aroused nothing but her contempt, and that made her different from all the other girls he had. She didn’t need him. He needed her. He’d realised that a long time ago, but he still laboured under the delusion that
she
hadn’t realised. He’d made a few connections for her. A lot of them were useless, because she had no intention of going into pornography. Only a handful of the photographers he knew had other ambitions. She’d try them. Not commit herself. Not be tempted by empty promises. Zako wanted her to stop taking the design classes, thought it took up too much time. She had no plans to stop. Had enough talent to get some use from it. The modelling jobs were just a series of tests: what sort of effect did her picture have on others, and why? What else could be done with that picture? How far could she get from what she was, or had once been?

She was finished with Zako. Had started looking for a new apartment. Wouldn’t have any problem paying back what she owed him. If the worst came to the worst, ask at home. Not Mother, obviously, but Mailin, who would send money immediately, no questions asked … The thought of her sister brought a stop to the long, flowing movements of the hairbrush. She sat there squeezing it in her hand. The eyes in the mirror held her. Something had happened. Three days ago. Yet again Zako had insisted that she escort some businessmen for an evening on the town. He had three or four girls who earned money for him that way. He provided the service, it brought in a lot of money, and he let them keep quite a bit for themselves. They didn’t have to sleep with anyone, just hang around at receptions and go to nightclubs.
With unlimited access to champagne, coke and the best restaurants in town
, in Zako’s tempting description. Rikke was just about hooked.
Easy money
, he promised. He sounded like a used-car salesman, and it started Liss off laughing. He asked what the big joke was. And that was when she dropped the hint, the thing she’d now made up her mind about, that she was going to break with him. His eyes darkened.
Maybe you don’t give a damn about what happens to you
,
he hissed,
but you’ve got someone you do give a damn about, just like everyone does.
What do you mean? she had to ask, suddenly struggling to hide her uncertainty.
Don’t you have a sister?
Then something happened that hadn’t happened for a long time. The light in the room changed. It got brighter, and at the same time seemed to sort of withdraw.
Aren’t I here?
She felt the thought race through her, and a pounding began in her chest, so hard she had to take a hold of herself just to go on breathing. And at the same time, that other thought:
he mustn’t see what’s happening to me
. She held on tight to the edge of the table. He smirked. Didn’t say anything, just that smirk, as though to show her that he knew he had her now.

She put down the hairbrush, pulled on her jersey and trousers. Zako had no idea how idiotic it was of him to try to bring her sister into it. The final straw. She would make that blindingly clear to him next time they met.

She put her mascara on, a thin layer, took out her eyeshadow. Suddenly she saw Mailin in her mind’s eye. Standing in front of a bed. She’s wearing pyjamas, and even though the room is in darkness, Liss knows that they’re pale blue. Her sister’s hair is gathered in two long braids, the way she used to have it when she was a child. She’s standing there saying something or other.

Liss tossed her make-up into her bag, took her leather jacket down from its peg, let herself out of the dressing room. From the kitchen she could hear Wim talking to one of the other photographers he shared the studio with. She stole out so quietly they didn’t hear her.

Close on midnight. Packed at the Café Alto. The quartet on the stage in the innermost recess of the cramped premises began playing a tune announced by the pianist as ‘Before I Met You’. Liss knew him. He was American and had been out with a couple of the girls from her design class. Now he sat hunched over in the half-dark, staring in what looked like surprise at his own hands as they ran up and down the keyboard.

Rikke waved from a table over by the stairs, shuffled up the bench to make room. Zako had his back turned and was talking to a guy at the next table. Once Liss had wriggled her way in, Rikke leaned over to her. – Zako thinks you’re starting to avoid him, she said with her mouth pressed to Liss’s ear.

Liss had to laugh. Was Rikke doing his talking for him now? Only then did Zako turn round. His eyes were shining, and it might have looked as though he was having fun, but she knew him by now. He leaned across the table, put a hand on her arm, and looked very closely at her. – Been working right up till now? she made out through the music.

Zako was always on the alert, even when he was high. Always asking questions about what she’d been doing and who she’d been with.

She was hungry. Hadn’t eaten since the early afternoon. She picked up a Marlboro packet, lit a cigarette and leaned against the wall. Zako still sat there studying her face as though he were seeing her for the first time. Up on stage, the bass player, whom Liss also knew through the school, was taking a solo. His head was in constant motion; he was playing with it. It looked as though he had a fishing line between his teeth with which he was pulling and drawing out notes from the massive instrument.

A clumpy, damp-smelling joint was passed across to their table. Liss passed it on to Rikke, who was resting her head on her shoulder, girlfriend-like.

– Need something completely different from camel shit.

– Agreed. Come with me.

Rikke went up the stairs first. Liss could feel Zako’s gaze on her back, at a point just below the neck.

They let themselves into the toilet. Rikke fished an envelope out of her handbag, a mirror and a straw. Handed it to Liss.

– Might as well have a pee while you do the honours, she said. She lifted her short skirt, yanked down her tights and slipped down on to the toilet seat.

Liss made a line ready. Kept her hair back out of the way with one hand. Rikke held it for her. Liss bent forward, inhaled as deeply as she could along the mirror, ended up with her mouth almost down in her cleavage. Another line in the other nostril.