A CHILD MADE TO ORDER: gripping psychological suspense

by Piotr Ryczko

  But the only thing that raced through Viola’s mind was what she had done. Their relationship had always had a serious limp. But as she looked into Anne’s face, she realised they had reached a tipping point. Damage was dealt, and it might never be undone.

  But at this moment, Viola wasn’t sure she would want to try anyway.

  Late afternoon

  Viola scuttled out of the newspaper office like a wounded animal. Her eyes were slaloming past everybody’s glances as she attempted to make it out in one piece. Still, she felt everybody’s raised eyebrows, imperceptible coughs, and silent laughs. The fact that she didn’t see them, didn’t mean they weren’t there. She could sense every one of them, drilling into her spine, weighing her body down until she could barely make it out of the building.

  Yet for every step that she made out of this office, she was closer to disconnecting from this place. And as she threw the door open, her past came crushing back at her.

  She remembered hearing about the childless and their stories. All the narratives that promised her that her own story would have a blissful ending. One where she would reach the promised light at the end of the murky tunnel. Find the procedure that was just right for her body. One that actually worked and didn’t maim her hormonal system.

  But after ten years of trials and torment, she realised she never heard about the other kind of stories.

  The stories about the people who had finally arrived at the conclusion that not only were they physically disabled, but their lives were worthless and meaningless. So, they might just as well give up.

  Those were the true stories.

  As she burst through the last door, she left all the confused glances behind her. And it struck her more clearly than ever, her life was this kind of story.

  The true story.

  PART TWO: Deceit

  Vlog 1 st entry 13.3.2010

  “Hello Dolly, to all you girls out there! I am Marianne, and this is my first post.”

  Nervousness pervaded her body all morning. She had all sorts of doubts. Would she be heard? Would people believe her story was genuine? And would anyone care? She knew she could blow it. All of it. After all, it was the very first time.

  Then she pushed away all the doubts and summoned her courage as she turned on the webcam. And in that moment, she saw her green eyes gaze back at her.

  This was her big moment of truth.

  “I am here for a reason. Because of one single moment in my life. The most defining one, you could say. And those of you who have been through that moment, you will know what I am talking about. It is the moment I realised my body won’t ever know the feeling of having morning sickness, of being pregnant, of giving birth. That exact point in time that crushed all meaning from my life.” She uttered the words, and felt her body reverberate with a painful groan. These life-defining thoughts were the DNA of her body; this moment influenced all her convictions. The same convictions which now led her to rip herself open for the public.

  “What provokes me is that single women get stamped as ‘insufficient’. You know what I am talking about. Just because they don’t have a partner. The Norwegian government and the Bioteknologirådet, the Norwegian Biotech Council, think that single women don’t have the same rights to children as couples do. What the hell is wrong with this picture? They claim it is for the best of the child to have two parents. Who the fuck came up with the idea that single women are insufficient? That a child will have an identity crisis because it doesn’t have a father? Or that I won’t be able to support it? It terrifies me. We haven’t gotten further in this country? Come on, folks! It’s the fucking twenty-first century, isn’t it? Just look at Denmark and their fertility regulations. What do we have to do? Go out on the town and get a random fuck, in some vain hope a child will be the result? I know many of us do. At least those who can get pregnant. But I want to be the first one to know, from your experience, your story, if a one-night stand equals a responsible father, a proper family. You tell me! Or maybe better tell that to the Bioteknologirådet. The wise men with their fat asses, stubby fingers that push the buttons, deciding our future.” She was inflamed, and finally let out her breath. Her mind felt crushed just thinking about this, much less talking about it. Yet this didn’t sap her energy like the last seven years had. This didn’t drain her like another IVF cycle. No. This was something else. A new quality and meaning. She could feel it.

  “Don’t they see that being a mother is not just some random act committed on a whim? It takes perseverance, courage, your whole emotional core, to even make the decision. It’s a long and arduous process of preparation and planning, a carefully thought out process. All you girls know what I am talking about. Only you would understand what it is like to be excluded, shunned and isolated in what is supposed to be the most democratic country in the world. I admire your courage, and hope that those of you who have the courage to go to Denmark for IVF will get your wish fulfilled.” Adrenaline pumped through her veins, she was primed, ready to take on the world.

  “This is not just a first post. But a new beginning. Do you know why I speak up? Because this country needs our voice. A country full of hurt three-legged rabbits, hiding in shadowy corners, and impotent men deciding our future. So, I propose a new path, and not for my healing, but for all of you out there. You see, Hello Dolly is not just a random plugin in my blogger’s toolbox. For many, it symbolised the hope and enthusiasm of an entire generation. These very words were sung by Louis Armstrong. For me, they are my manifesto! The message I bring to you because we all need it! Hang in there! Don’t give up! Hello Dolly to all you single, childless girls!”

  She finished and clicked off the cam.

  Everything would change. Everyone would hear her.

  In four years’ time.

  Chapter 12

  Friday, 12th February 2016

  Morning

  Pål eyed Viola with apprehension. In his hands were two minuscule items. A microphone and a receiver.

  “You are not serious? You are serious.” She cringed at the sight. These methods were exactly the thing she detested the most. Although the Norwegian law stated that sound recordings were admissible as evidence in court, as a professional journalist she had to participate in the conversation. But this wasn’t what smelt of rotten journalist ethics for her. What did, was that she went into this place as a private person, and with the intention to provoke and possibly steer the staff into illegal activities. Although some of her peers would disagree, in her mind, this was walking the razor’s edge, and she wouldn’t be the first one to end up in court, sued to hell and back for malpractice.

  She took a hard-line stance towards similar matters, and some time ago, even ran a story on her peers, called Story Forgery. She didn’t hesitate to lash out at their ethics when they took editorial liberty in their work that left out crucial facts. The reality they presented skewed the public perception of a real person. Her story caused a stir and legal proceedings. Her peers were ostracised, and the event was later labelled as a black chapter in Norwegian journalism.

  Yet, despite this, there were always respected journalists, from even more respected papers, who dared to push the limits. People who saw no other means than to forge their identities in order to provoke illegal actions, just so they could subsequently expose them to the public. In many cases it worked, sometimes the end even justified the means, but she wasn’t looking for attention, and certainly not to paint this all over the national media.

  She only wanted to find one person. And the answers that came along with her.

  “No. No. Forget it. I came here for protection. As in official protection. This won’t make things better.” If she was prepared to use these methods, she wouldn’t have come to him. This was stuff anyone could get off the shelf. And she could just go inside the clinic, collect the recordings as evidence, and use it as proof to get a warrant.

  “You have an alternate plan, don’t you?” she prodded him. Pål peeked at her with
clear disappointment, which told Viola everything.

  No plan B.

  It was bad enough she was putting her career on the line, but now she had a respected police officer suggesting they both pull this stunt.

  She glanced at Pål, searching his features for answers. Something she failed to notice before. From the very first moment she entered his apartment, there was something off with this man. A warped state, one he tried to cover up from the beginning. She had seen something similar in junkies, alcoholics. But it clung to him, like a murky, invisible cloak.

  Desperation.

  It was there. In plain sight. She was about to gamble her safety on a man who was willing to do anything. Put him in a squeezer, and what would he do? What was he capable of?

  “Do you see any other way to get a proper warrant to this place? That’s our only shot at evidence,” he whispered with a growing impatience, reminding Viola who came to whom in the first place.

  “And the official channels?” Viola tried the obvious one more time.

  “If you want to help her any time this year, forget it.”

  Viola’s eyes went to the micro-chip mike. Hesitated even more. She knew this would garner a lot of aggravation. After all, he was willing to help her.

  But there had to be another way. If she got caught with this... Yes, that would be hard to explain. And what’s worse, considering she had no official assignment from Aftenposten, there would be no backup from there.

  Add to that the small matter of how she is now perceived by her fellow professionals after her Story Forgery piece, and it would make her a hypocrite in their eyes. The woman who made a public crusade against these kind of methods, now using them?

  No.

  There had to be a different path. Some middle road. One that wouldn’t burn all the bridges behind her. And also set her on fire.

  “Can I think about it?” she asked. Pål eyed her and threw up his arms.

  She saw it in his eyes. An accusation. What was this sudden bullshit thinly dressed up as journalist ethics? Fear was making the decisions for her right now. And Marianne was certainly worth more than that.

  She wrenched her eyes away from his gaze because she knew he was right. And it struck her. She didn’t know anymore what she was doing here. Why did she come here in the first place? What had she put first? Her own skin, or Marianne’s well-being?

  Noon

  Viola paced back and forth in her room. Her whole body was tied in some freakish knot. After countless phone calls and dead ends, she had finally reached the nearest thing one could call authority in this clinic.

  “Yes. Marianne Olsen... I understand that information is confidential... But, yes... so you told me, please.” Despite that she wasn’t face-to-face with the person, she could smell the irritation. She knew she had to be quick.

  “Yes, but next of kin? Would the clinic make the information available then?” She fired away what seemed to be her best, and last, shot.

  But she knew the exact answers she would be getting. The private clinics had a fool-proof privacy armour. Or at least the respectable ones did. They prided themselves in keeping their sensitive customer data safe from such amateurish hacks as her.

  Still, she had to hang on to her delusions. Anything. As long as she didn’t have to wear that microphone into that place.

  “Come on, I am talking about her mother. Doesn’t she have a right to know?” She may as well be talking to the air, she knew that. The only thing for her to do now was to wait for the obvious.

  Still, when she heard it, she felt her stomach sink.

  But she wasn’t done. She had one more shot.

  Evening

  Viola glowed with a smile at a female Constable’s desk in the main police station at Grønlandsleiret. She expected an immediate bureaucratic road block, which would cut off her chance at any kind of official investigation.

  Instead, she was treated warmly by a young woman named Dina, who was open, and even a little gullible. And suddenly Viola began to see hope.

  The Constable behaved as if this was her very first day at work. And with every hook Viola laid out, she realised it might actually be the case. So, Viola made sure she drew out some crucial information about her, which wasn’t all that difficult.

  In ten minutes, she learned Dina had been happily engaged. She had two award-winning poodles, which she loved more than anything. But, most of all, she revealed her despair that her soon-to-be-husband didn’t share her love of the poodles. When he put his foot down and told her she needed to check her priorities, pleading that she treat him better than her damned dogs, she cried and apologised to him. Then she took the dogs under her arm, went out and never returned.

  This off-the-record gossip led Viola to one conclusion. Maybe there was a way to kick-start this without the key element of any investigation: solid evidence. Any half-experienced police officer would throw her out of the police station at the mere suggestion. But maybe Viola didn’t have a regular police officer in front of her. Maybe she just needed to connect.

  “So, then, let’s sum it up: we have all the paperwork done. And I can expect this thing to start any day now?” she prodded Dina.

  “Miss! No. No. With all the new regulations, it would be more like a month or two of waiting time,” the young woman replied with an overflowing grin. Viola sank in on herself. That may as well be ten years. Viola needed to move on this. But Dina needed the right incentive.

  “Did you know that Aftenposten is running a long form story on the social impact of miniature poodles and how they will be forming part of the psychological framework of every urban household of the future? Brilliant, huh? We have the concept, but we are still looking for the household. By the way, your dogs, are those the miniature ones?” Viola let the ludicrous hook hang in the air. But it took only half a second for the young police officer’s eyes to spark.

  “I might be able to actually push this case to the less loaded detectives. Just for you, Miss Voss...”

  “Please, dear, just Viola.” She stressed this. With this woman and some poodle talk, the impossible would become possible. Her plan had worked. And without some questionable half-assed solutions provided by Pål.

  The Constable returned her bursting energy and grabbed Viola’s card. Viola straightened and was about to get up, but was interrupted by a cough from Dina.

  “Umm, I think we forgot one detail. I will just need you to fill out these files. You know, to procure any evidence you might have at your disposal. Anything that would help our investigation. Is that okay... Viola?” The lieutenant sent her a warm grin as she finally allowed herself to connect on a personal level with Viola. Then, she handed all the standard paperwork out to Viola.

  Viola felt a deep sting in her chest. There was no way around it. She knew what she would have to do next.

  Late evening

  Pål didn’t ask a single question when she came back. And even if he had, she would never tell him what happened.

  But the subtle I-told-you-so smirk spoke volumes. Frankly, she was sick of him. Every time she glanced at his face, his self-righteous grin would get more pronounced. No, she wasn’t sick of him. She wanted to beat him to a pulp.

  Meanwhile, Pål used tweezers to push the micro-chip mike inside Viola’s necklace. The chip had a whole electronic circuit inside it and included a microphone, all contained in something the size of a grain of rice.

  “This thing has Wi-Fi built in and will log on to any nearby network. Then it will record and stream audio in real time over the Net to my I.P. address. I will be right outside the clinic with this.” He pointed to his laptop, then fired up an app on it. It allowed him to log on to the sound source from the mike. A quick sound check confirmed everything was okay.

  But Viola’s mind was already elsewhere. The only thing that concerned her was whether Ronny would hear any of this. And when she saw Pål’s laptop, she knew that might be beyond her control.

  If they ran any tests on her whil
e she was inside the clinic, Ronny was bound to hear the truth. She had come this far with him, and wasn’t going to blow the whole thing by revealing the truth about her condition. There had to be a way to make sure Ronny never heard the recording.

  Meanwhile, she realised that Pål had stopped fiddling with his laptop. Her hesitation must have been painted all over her face since Pål’s attention was now focused on her.

  “What?” she asked self-consciously. Pål shook his head.

  “Even if they catch you, do you think they will locate this thing? This is not some military operation, okay? Relax, Viol.” Viola’s hands began to twitch.

  She was committing herself to an illegal action devised by a working cop. And on top of that, she was risking the finest romantic relationship she’s had for ten years. No. She wasn’t risking it. She was using Ronny, she reminded herself.

  “What you hear, through this... will you be using headphones?” The words stumbled out of her, as she gestured to the laptop.

  Pål glanced at her for a moment, then just burst into a chuckle. Viola wanted to hurl something at him. Anything would do, as long as it would hurt enough to make him stop. What the hell was this man thinking, making jokes at her suffering?

  “You meant to say, will your partner be able to hear it?” He pierced right at the truth.

  “That’s not what I said...” Viola tried to backtrack, unwilling to share anything more with him. And certainly not this sensitive.

  “That’s exactly what you said. Relax, Viola. The secret of your mitochondrial disease is safe with me.” He spoke with a childish carelessness. In a way that only someone who had never been through that nightmare could do.

  What was a plain fact for the cop was like a sledgehammer for Viola. How the hell could this man know? Yes, they had spent a lot of time together on Marianne’s investigation. They had even shared some private stuff over a beer. Out of necessity. Only to get further with the investigation.